Just silence from the furnace and ice forming inside the window glass.
I called the propane company from my kitchen with gloves on.
The representative sounded nervous.
“Service interruption was requested by the account holder.”
“The account holder is the HOA,” I said.
“Yes, sir.”
“Who called?”
“I can’t disclose that.”
I looked through the window toward Dolores’s house, warm and glowing across the cul-de-sac.
“You don’t have to.”
By dawn, I knew exactly what I was going to do.
Not rage.
Not retaliation.
Procedure.
Because what Dolores never bothered to learn was that the shared propane system did not belong to her board. It belonged, under the original covenant, to every homeowner equally.
And if one person could weaponize the system against me, then the whole neighborhood needed to feel exactly what kind of power she had been holding in her binder.
So I called Petra, my attorney, and the propane company’s legal department.
And by sunset, the master service that kept Dolores’s kingdom warm was headed into a legal lockout she could not undo with a phone call
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