Then we heard another vehicle outside.
Howard pulled into the driveway.
Rosa was with him.
Karen looked at me.
"Why are they here?"
"I did not call them."
Howard stepped onto the porch carrying two lanterns.
"Rachel started a neighborhood check-in list," he said. "We are making sure people with basements, refrigerators, and mobility issues are okay."
Rosa saw the battery station near the basement stairs.
Then she looked at Karen.
Then at me.
Her eyebrows rose.
I shook my head slightly.
Do not start.
She pressed her lips together.
Howard was less subtle.
"Is that Mark's battery?"
Karen answered before I could.
"He offered temporary assistance."
Howard looked at me.
I nodded.
"Good," he said. "That is what neighbors are supposed to do during an outage."
The sentence landed harder than any insult could have.
Karen looked away.
Then Howard added, "Which is also why the board suspended every generator violation this morning."
Karen spun back.
"You what?"
"Emergency vote. Four to one."
"You cannot conduct enforcement policy by text message."
"We can suspend fines issued without rule support."
"I am the president."
Howard glanced toward the dead ceiling lights.
"Today you're also a homeowner in a blackout. Maybe act like one."
Rosa coughed again.
This time there was no pretending.
She was laughing.
The power stayed off through Saturday night.
By evening Brookhaven had transformed.
Front porches glowed with battery lanterns. People carried coolers between houses. Residents with gas grills cooked food that would otherwise spoil. Those with generators charged battery packs for neighbors. The clubhouse opened as a charging station using a permanently installed backup system nobody had ever complained about because, as Rachel later put it, "apparently generators become classy when they belong to the HOA."
Karen did not return my battery pack until almost ten.
She brought it herself.
The rain had stopped, and the air smelled like wet leaves and gasoline from several distant generators.
"The utility says we may have power by midnight," she said.
"Good."
She handed me the battery.
"Thank you."
It was the first uncomplicated thank-you I could remember hearing from her.
"You're welcome."
She stood there for a moment.
I thought she might leave.
Instead, she said, "I still believe the generator could have been positioned more discreetly."
I stared at her.
Karen somehow managed to turn gratitude into a compliance note in under fifteen seconds.
"Good night, Karen."
"I'm only saying—"
"Good night."
I closed the door.
Caleb was sitting on the stairs.
"Did she just complain about the generator after borrowing electricity from you?"
"A battery."
"Still."
"Yes."
He shook his head.
"Unbelievable."
At 11:46, power returned.
The whole neighborhood seemed to come alive at once. Exterior lights clicked on. Air conditioners started. Garage doors hummed. Somewhere someone cheered.
I shut down the generator and went to bed.
Sunday morning I expected peace.
Instead, I received a certified electronic notice from the HOA.
Karen had converted my suspended $250 violation into a formal hearing request.
Her statement said I had operated "unscreened combustion equipment" in view of common areas, refused a direct order from the president, and "distributed electrical resources to third parties without association coordination."
I read the third phrase twice.
Distributed electrical resources.
I had lent Rosa a battery pack.
That was Karen's emergency now.
I called Howard.
"Did the board approve this hearing?"
"No."
"Then why did I get it?"
"Karen can request a hearing as president. She cannot impose the fine without a vote now."
"Why is she still doing this?"
Howard sighed.
"Because backing down would mean admitting she was wrong."
"She came to my house asking for help."
"I know."
"You saw the battery at her house."
"I know."
"And she still filed this?"
"I know."
I looked at the hearing notice.
"Fine. Let's have the hearing."
Howard went quiet.
"You sure?"
"Completely."
The meeting was scheduled for Wednesday night.