They didn't arrest me. They didn't take me away. Mercer asked to see my key ring because he wanted to be sure there was no immediate danger of a confrontation around the equipment, then returned it before leaving. I signed my name beneath a brief statement about the suspected safety issue. The patrol cars drove out slowly, their tires grinding through gravel while residents shouted questions I couldn't answer in the few seconds between one face and the next.
Diane stood by her vehicle until the cars were gone. Then she looked at me with an expression almost like pity.
"You should have accepted the offer," she said.
I didn't reply. There was no point. Above our heads the tank creaked as it settled, a noise I'd heard since childhood. That night it sounded like an old man trying to speak through a closed door.
By nine I was back at the kitchen table surrounded by paper. Elaine had turned on every light. My logbook lay open beside a stack of blank notification forms. I had spoken to the emergency line again and requested guidance on the appropriate advisory. Until the unknown intrusion could be characterized, I was treating the distributed water as unsafe for consumption or household use. The notice had to be plain enough that nobody could mistake it for an ordinary interruption.
"DO NOT USE TAP WATER," I typed. "Do not drink, cook, brush teeth, wash produce, or prepare infant formula with water from this system. Do not assume boiling makes it safe. Use an alternative safe source until official clearance is issued."
I added the time of the shutoff, my telephone number, and instructions for reporting illness or unusual water conditions. Then I printed 186 copies. The old printer whined across the kitchen like an animal objecting to being woken in the night. Elaine refilled the tray whenever it emptied. She didn't ask me whether I had done the right thing. Instead she asked how we were going to make sure every house received a notice.
We divided the streets by cul-de-sac and worked from the farthest homes back toward the gate. I drove while Elaine sorted the addresses. We rubber-banded notices to front doorknobs, placed them under storm doors where possible, and knocked when we saw a light on. Motion detectors flashed across us like camera strobes. At several houses people opened doors only far enough to recognize me, then demanded to know when their water would be restored.
A woman on Juniper Court told me she had two children who needed baths before school. I gave her the notice and explained why the interruption was happening. She asked whether I could guarantee the water had not already harmed them. I told her I couldn't make that guarantee, and I hated myself for not having a better answer. She shut the door gently, which felt worse than if she'd slammed it.
Near midnight, a teenager in a football jersey came onto his porch and called me a thief. His father appeared behind him and told him to get inside. Then the father read the warning and asked if I was serious. I said yes. He nodded once, but I could tell he didn't know whether to believe the man standing under his porch light or the alert he'd already received from the association.