"Bring your work shirt," Laura said. She stood up and tucked the portfolio under her arm. "You are about to present the community with their true power bill."
The office went dark as Laura turned off the overhead lights behind her. Thomas sat alone in the blue glow of the monitor. He folded the printed PDF invoices twice and slid them into his breast pocket. The five o'clock deadline had passed, but the real accounting was just beginning.
Snowmelt dripped from roof edges onto the concrete pavers outside the Cedar Hollow clubhouse. Folding chairs scraped against the waxed parquet floor until every aisle was blocked by woolen coats and heavy boots. Forty-three homeowners filled the hall, murmuring under industrial ceiling fans. Thomas Reed sat on the rear bench, his denim shirt stiff against the backrest. He pulled his safety glasses from his breast pocket and buffed them against his thigh with slow, mechanical friction.
Karen Whitmore stood at the raised podium beneath a laminated fire-safety diagram. She wore a cream blazer and gold hoop earrings that caught the glare of the fluorescent tubes. Her sunglasses tapped a rigid staccato against her forearm. She adjusted the black gooseneck microphone until it emitted a sharp electronic whine.
"Budget ratification requires a unanimous quorum vote," Karen said. Her voice echoed off the wood-paneled walls. "We have deferred maintenance on the lower drainage ditch that cannot wait another fiscal quarter."
Frank Ellis leaned over from the second row and spat a peppermint hull into a crumpled napkin. He turned to whisper into the ear of the man beside him, his gaze darting toward Thomas at the back. The room hummed with collective anxiety over municipal utility hikes. No one on the lower loop had spoken to Thomas since the ice storm two months ago. They treated him like a foreign power on their borders.
Laura Kim stepped out from the small kitchenette near the exit. She carried a leather portfolio under one arm. Her sensible heels clicked against the floorboards as she walked toward the front table. Karen stopped mid-sentence, her fingers freezing on the rim of the podium. Laura reached the edge of the stage, placed her briefcase on the wood, and tapped the bottom edge of a document three times against her portfolio to align it.
Karen leaned over the microphone with a strained smile. "This is a private association proceeding. Non-members must wait in the lobby."
Laura opened her leather folder without looking up. "I represent the homeowner whose property serves as your unrecorded electrical substation."
The murmurs in the crowd stopped instantly. A cold draft blew through the double doors at the entrance, carrying the scent of wet sagebrush from the foothills. Karen’s sunglasses rapped three times against her bare skin. She glanced at the empty seat beside the treasurer, her jaw tightening.