But three days later, just before dawn—the hour when the world feels most vulnerable—we woke abruptly to the deep, mechanical rumble of engines outside. The sound wasn’t familiar, and it wasn’t subtle; whatever it was, it was loud enough to send both of us rushing to the window. Through the blurry early-morning light, we saw two tow trucks idling in front of our driveway. Jack cursed under his breath, and I felt a surge of disbelief wash over me. Workers were already fastening metal hooks onto our vehicles, tightening chains, preparing to haul them away. We were stunned. There’d been no warning, no ticket, no knock on the door—just immediate, aggressive action. I threw on a coat and ran outside, Jack right behind me. The air was cold and smelled faintly of diesel. And there she was: Lindsey. Standing smugly at the edge of her yard in a pastel bathrobe, hands wrapped around a steaming mug, watching the scene unfold with unmistakable satisfaction. The smirk on her face said it all—she had reported us. Not only reported us, but likely waited for the tow trucks to arrive just so she could witness the outcome. She didn’t speak right away. She simply watched with the air of someone who believed she had successfully put newcomers in their place.
When the tow operators noticed us approaching, one of them frowned and asked, “Are these your vehicles?” Jack confirmed they were, and the workers hesitated, clearly not thrilled at the idea of conflict before sunrise. Meanwhile, Lindsey’s composure wavered for a moment, just long enough for me to see the excitement beneath the surface—she had anticipated an argument she expected to win. Jack and I exchanged a look, communicating silently the same thought: She has no idea what she’s done. Jack stepped forward and calmly explained, “These are government vehicles.” The tow operators paused. One of them pulled out a small flashlight and examined the corner of the windshield more closely, shining the beam across the faint, discreet sticker affixed there. It wasn’t flashy or obvious; it was deliberately understated, almost invisible unless you knew where to look. The worker adjusted his posture immediately. “These are exempt,” he said quietly. He straightened up, then turned to his partner. “We can’t touch these.” I glanced toward Lindsey. Her smug smile faltered, then collapsed entirely. Her eyes widened. “What do you mean, exempt?” she demanded, stepping closer. Her voice cracked slightly, the tone shifting from self-satisfied to anxious. The operator, still professional but unmistakably irritated, replied, “Ma’am, these vehicles fall under federal exemption. Local rules don’t apply. HOA regulations don’t override government orders.” The color drained from Lindsey’s face. The early morning silence stretched between us, punctuated only by the clanking of chains being unhooked and equipment being put away. The tow operators left without another word, clearly frustrated at having been dragged out unnecessarily. Lindsey stood frozen, gripping her bathrobe tighter, her earlier confidence evaporated.
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