The first sound that morning wasn’t my alarm—it was the drill.
A deep, teeth-rattling grind came through the floor. I checked my phone: 7:12 a.m. on a Saturday. Coffee was still just a plan.
The noise grew louder. Metal clanging, voices, a truck idling. I opened the door.
A white work truck was half in my driveway. A man in a neon vest pounded into the concrete with a rotary hammer. Twenty-two bright yellow parking bars sat lined up like soldiers, ready for installation.
“What the hell,” I muttered.
On the sidewalk, arms crossed, clipboard under one elbow, stood Karen—HOA President. She didn’t look at me.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. What are you doing to my driveway?”
The worker paused, ear protection dangling, glancing at her. She sighed, as if I’d interrupted her grocery list.