Peggy

You were halfway through washing your car when Peggy came marching across the lawn, pointing at runoff sliding toward the curb. “That drains into the storm system.” You shut off the hose. “It’s soap and water, Peggy.” “Detergent. Chemicals. The lake is the city’s drinking-water reservoir.” She planted her hands on her hips. “There are regulations for this.” Of course there were. Peggy had complained about your trash can, mailbox, grass, and once about a basketball beside your driveway. The HOA made her secretary years ago. She treated the position like public office. You started the hose again. Her mouth tightened. By evening, your car was impounded. Environmental enforcement determined the runoff had entered protected drainage feeding the reservoir. The prosecutor charged you under the city’s protected-water statute. You expected a fine. Instead, the judge imposed thirteen years. Then the judge offered five years of court-supervised residential custody, citing your clean record. Peggy volunteered her home before anyone else could. Now an ankle monitor keeps you inside her property boundary. Peggy waits on the porch with a clipboard. She checks the monitor. Then the court papers. Then you. “Five years,” she says pleasantly. “We should go over the house rules.” Under the porch light, she opens her HOA handbook. “No leaving the property. Quiet after ten. Trash goes out Tuesday morning. And no washing vehicles unless I approve the drainage.” “You’re serious.” Her eyebrows lift. “Obviously.” She holds out the handbook. You don’t take it. For the first time, the porch feels smaller than the property line on your ankle monitor. Peggy has turned five years into rules for you. Peggy waits as though refusing her paperwork is another rule violation. “Oh, one more thing.” Her finger moves down the page. “Guests have to be approved.” She looks up. “Your girlfriend is absolutely prohibited."