"Do you really think a fire can reach us?" he said.
"I don't know if one will," I answered. "I know one can."
We walked to the end of the lane so I could show him the brush line. It was dense enough that in some places you could not see the ground, and the wind was already pushing dried leaves against the fences. I pointed to the narrow road leading into the north curve and explained what could happen if an engine needed to hold that lane while water tenders came from farther away. Elliot was an accountant, not a firefighter, but he understood the difference between an unlikely problem and an unprepared one.
"I hope it's wasted money," he said after a while.
"That's the nicest thing anybody's said about it."
My hearing was scheduled for the second week of September at the community room behind the Milford Road fire station. Cedar Hollow did not have a clubhouse, and the association rented that room for meetings because the folding chairs were cheap and the lights were reliable. It had the smell of old coffee and carpet cleaner, with a wall clock that ran four minutes fast. Eleven items were on the agenda, and mine was third.
I arrived early enough to watch people carrying documents through the doorway. Grant Ellison stood by the coffee table, a sheaf of papers in his hand and a worried expression on his face. He had served three years on the board and once told me that he joined because he thought retired people ought to help with neighborhood chores. I suspected he had not expected those chores to include disputes over industrial water storage.
"Evening, Darius," he said. "I read your package."
"Good," I said. "That's all I was asking anybody to do."
He hesitated, then said the board had concerns about precedent. If my tank stayed, other residents might put up storage sheds or greenhouses and claim their own practical reasons. I asked whether the governing documents treated permitted utility equipment the same as recreational storage buildings. He stared into his coffee for a moment and admitted that the section was not especially clear.
"Then maybe the precedent should be reading it carefully," I said.
He gave me a tired smile and went to take his seat. A woman carrying paint swatches asked whether the board had the new beige color on the agenda; Grant told her they did. I watched her walk away with the simple confidence of someone whose request was going to be handled as a request rather than as a test of obedience. I remember that because she was right.
The board approved nine routine applications that evening with barely a question. One homeowner wanted a warmer shade on his trim, another wanted a fence six inches higher, and a third needed permission to replace a mailbox post with the same model in a different finish. Celeste nodded, Grant checked the forms, and the decisions moved along. Then Celeste read my name aloud.