The county red-flag warning arrived at eleven-forty. Phones across Cedar Hollow began sounding at almost the same instant, their alarms carrying through open garage doors and kitchen windows. I stepped outside and heard a screen door slam somewhere along the north curve. Nobody needed me to explain that the notice was serious.
I spent the next hour checking the tank and the area around it. The level was full to within a few inches of the top, and the fill system showed no loss. I exercised the accessible valve as the manufacturer directed, inspected the external connection for damage and debris, and verified that the cap and seal were clean. Then I walked the driveway to make sure a heavy vehicle would have a clear approach if it ever came through the gate.
My father used to say a maintenance record is a promise to the next person who needs the equipment. I wrote the date and the results in the small log I kept for the installation. Nothing I did that afternoon was especially clever or heroic. It was the ordinary, boring work that keeps emergency arrangements from becoming decorative objects.
At one-thirty Rachel called to ask whether the county had contacted me about the red-flag warning. She had heard of a small brush fire farther west and wanted to make sure I understood that the tank would not make staying during an evacuation safe. I told her I had a go bag near the front door and would leave if ordered. We talked briefly about the reserve, and she reminded me to leave all emergency operations to the firefighters, whatever happened.
"I know how pumps work," I said. "I also know when a crew has command of a scene."
"Good," she replied. "Then don't let pride turn you into somebody they have to rescue."
I was still thinking about that conversation when Celeste drove down the service lane. She stopped beside the driveway and rolled down her window without getting out. From her seat she could see the tank, the cleared access route, and the small logbook in my hand. She looked almost amused.
"Preparing for the end of the world?" she asked.
"No, ma'am. Just trying not to wait until it's too late."
She glanced toward the garage door and said the contractor would be handling the matter the next morning. I asked whether she had received Mara Bell's latest letter. Celeste replied that the association was reviewing all correspondence but intended to enforce its rules consistently. Then she drove away, leaving her last word hanging in the wind as if consistency were enough to make a bad decision sound good.
I watched her car disappear and thought about going after her to argue. Instead, I checked the weather again, closed the garage, and put my keys beside the evacuation bag. By then the temperature had passed a hundred degrees. The trees barely moved between gusts, as though even the leaves were saving their strength.