"Don't get into a physical argument with anybody who shows up," she said. "Call me, and call the appropriate authorities if someone enters without permission."
"Understood," I told her.
I left the notice on the door and went into the kitchen. The weather service had issued a forecast calling for extreme heat and gusty west winds over the weekend. I clicked through to the fire district's map and saw that the dry hills behind Cedar Hollow fell inside the area of highest concern. The timing felt like a cruel joke, though it was no joke at all.
For weeks, Celeste had insisted the tank did not belong behind my garage. Now a piece of plastic on the door counted down the hours until somebody might try to take it away, while the weather forecast described almost exactly the conditions I had prepared for. I put my phone on charge, checked the list of things I would need if we were told to evacuate, and decided that whatever happened with the association could wait until everybody was safe. I did not yet know how little time we had left.
The Saturday began at five-thirty in the morning because the house was already warm. I stepped out with coffee and felt the dry wind on my arms before the sun cleared the ridge. There was a metallic smell in the air, a smell I associated with overheated machinery and ground that had forgotten how to hold moisture. A few leaves came off the oaks and traveled across the concrete without tumbling, pushed flat by the wind.
I checked the county forecast again after breakfast. The temperature was expected to reach a hundred and seven by early afternoon, humidity would fall into single digits, and wind gusts could reach thirty-five miles an hour. It was a day for staying indoors and making sure nothing combustible was left loose in the yard. I moved two plastic bins into the garage and picked up the dry twigs that had collected under the fence.
Around nine, Elliot came down the lane carrying a garden hose coupling. He asked whether I thought he should water the lawn before the afternoon got hotter, and I told him the grass was not going to be rescued by an hour of sprinkling. Instead, I suggested he clear the dry leaves that had accumulated along his rear fence and check that the side gate could open easily. He smiled in the way people do when they ask a small question and receive a larger answer.
"You worry professionally," he said.
"It's a bad habit with a few advantages."
He asked whether Celeste had made any new threats. I pointed toward the clear sleeve still taped to the garage door. Elliot read the notice, shook his head, and said he could not understand why an association would treat emergency equipment as a threat while ignoring the dry brush behind the homes. He promised to speak with Grant, though I asked him not to turn the day into a neighborhood argument.