I hung up the phone. I felt a strange sense of calm. The anxiety of the police encounter was fading, replaced by a cold, hard resolve. I wasn’t just going to live here. I was going to loiter. I was going to loiter so hard it would make her head spin. But first, I needed to make sure I was bulletproof. Brenda had mentioned the HOA. She had mentioned people she knew. She was playing a game of rules and regulations. I walked over to the fridge and grabbed a beer. I cracked it open and took a sip. “You want to play rules, Brenda?” I whispered to the empty kitchen. “Let’s play.” I didn’t know it yet, but the porch was just the bait. The real trap was going to be much,

much more expensive and much more satisfying. The next morning, the war began at 6:59 a.m. I was awake, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the clock to tick over. I knew the local noise ordinance by heart now. I had looked it up the night before while angrily eating popcorn. Construction could legally commence at 7:00 a.m. on weekdays, not 6:59, not 7:01, 7:00 sharp. At 6:58 a.m., a low rumble shook my window frames. It sounded like a tectonic plate shifting or perhaps a dinosaur clearing its throat. I got out of bed and peeked through the blinds. A white Ford F-350, lifted so high you’d need a step ladder and a prayer to get into the cab, was idling in front of my house.

The side of the truck read Big Mike’s Decks in red block letters that looked like they had been punched into the metal. A trailer was attached to the back, piled high with pressure-treated lumber that smelled like chemical victory.

At exactly 7:00 a.m., the driver’s side door opened and Big Mike stepped out. I had spoken to him on the phone, but seeing him in person was a different experience. Mike was about 6’4” and roughly the shape of a vending machine. He wore a neon yellow T-shirt with the sleeves ripped off, revealing arms that looked like they were made of braided steel cables. He had a beard that could hide a small bird, and he was wearing wrap-around sunglasses despite the morning overcast. He didn’t knock. He walked to the trailer, grabbed a circular saw, plugged it into a generator that hummed like a jet engine, and revved it. Rrrrr. The sound tore through the quiet suburban morning like a scream. It was beautiful. I threw on a robe and went out to meet him. “Morning,” I shouted over the generator. Mike cut the power. The silence that followed was deafening. He looked me up and down, noting the robe and the slippers. “You Jason?” he asked. His voice sounded like gravel crunching under a boot. “I am. You made good time.” “Time is money,” Mike said. He gestured to the two other guys hopping out of the truck. One skinny guy with a mullet and one older guy who was smoking a cigarette with intense focus. “That’s Steve and Old Man River. Don’t ask why we call him River. We don’t know.” “Great to meet you guys,” I said.