"The crane. The sheriff. The whole spectacle. Some think Vanessa should resign."
"That's their decision."
"What do you think?"
I examined one of the cords. The insulation was cracked near the plug.
"I think this one needs to be thrown away."
Howard sighed. "You know what I meant."
"I do."
I set the cord aside.
"She made a bad decision, then doubled down on it. Twice. The board corrected the authority that let her do that. If homeowners want to remove her, they have bylaws. If they don't, they have better controls now."
"You don't want an apology?"
I thought about it.
"An apology would be nice. It wouldn't tell me which generator belongs to whom."
Howard laughed once. "You really are impossible."
"I've been told."
He looked toward the beige unit.
"I almost voted with her the first week."
That caught my attention.
"Why?"
"Because the register looked official. Because I spent thirty years as an accountant and I trusted the idea that if something had an asset number, someone had done the work behind it."
He looked embarrassed.
"Then I saw your serial history and realized I was giving our spreadsheet more credibility than the machine itself."
"Spreadsheets are useful."
"That sounds dangerously forgiving."
"They are. They just don't become true because the cells have borders."
He smiled.
"You should come to the next audit committee meeting."
"No."
"I hadn't finished asking."
"Still no."
"Worth a try."
He loaded the good extension cords into his truck and left the bad ones in my scrap bin.
I saw Vanessa once during that period near the utility building.
She wore the red blazer and held the same black portfolio. Technicians were working behind her on the new generator pad.
She noticed my truck.
I noticed her.
Neither of us waved.
Neither of us stopped.
For a while, I thought that would be the end of our contact.
It wasn't.
The next encounter came during a summer thunderstorm.
The line of weather formed west of the county just before dusk and moved fast. By seven, wind bent the mesquite and live oak along the ranch road hard enough that leaves showed their pale undersides. The National Weather Service pushed a severe-thunderstorm warning to every phone in the area, followed ten minutes later by a notice of sixty-mile-per-hour gusts and frequent lightning.
Luis and I had already brought loose equipment inside.
At 7:42 the power failed.
The ranch went black for less than four seconds.
Then DSB7419KC started.
The engine rolled once, caught, stabilized, and the transfer switch brought the house, well pumps, office, equipment barn, and cold storage back online.
I stood under the barn awning listening to the diesel settle into its load.
Twenty-one years old and still doing exactly what my father bought it to do.
My phone rang.
Sheriff Reeves.
"You got power?"
"Generator's running."