"Switching plan?"
"No."
"Written authorization?"
"No."
He stared at me.
Then he said something that told me exactly what kind of contractor he was.
"I can't touch it."
"Good."
He walked around the enclosure, taking photographs.
Then he called someone.
I didn't listen.
He left twenty minutes later.
That evening, Celeste called.
It was the first time she had ever called me.
Her voice was cold.
"You interfered with our contractor."
"He couldn't verify utility authorization."
"You made the project more complicated than it needed to be."
"Electricity gets complicated when people don't understand it."
Silence.
Then she said:
"Don't worry. We'll find someone who knows how to work with a homeowners association."
Two days later, Caleb sent the association a formal withdrawal.
He declined the work.
He stated that he had not received utility authorization or sufficient documentation regarding equipment ownership and electrical isolation.
He copied himself on the message.
That detail would later become critical.
When he left my property, he paused beside his truck.
"Someone's going to do it anyway," he said.
Then he looked at my cameras.
"Get those pointed the right way."
I did.
I just didn't believe him.
The next thing I knew about the transformer was a motion alert.
It came at 9:04 on a Tuesday morning.
I was inside an electrical room at a manufacturing plant more than an hour away.
My phone buzzed.
EAST CAMERA — MOTION DETECTED.
I opened the feed.
A boom truck was backing down my gravel access road.
Behind it was a flatbed.
Four men in hard hats were standing beside the transformer enclosure.
And Celeste Whitmore was there.
Cream-colored jacket.
Arms folded.
Watching.
I called Derek.
No answer.
I called again.
No answer.
I called Celeste.
The phone rang once.
Then stopped.
I immediately called the utility.
The dispatcher checked the address.
Then the equipment identifier.
Then she checked again.
"There is no work order," she said.
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"No outage scheduled?"
"No."
"Relocation authorization?"
"No."
Her voice changed.
"Mr. Avery, I'm escalating this."
I told my client I had an emergency.
Then I drove home.
The entire way, I kept checking the camera.
The crew had cut the fence.
They had opened the enclosure.
They had disconnected the equipment.
At one point, the image shook as the boom lifted the transformer.
I gripped the steering wheel.
I knew what they were doing.
I knew they shouldn't be doing it.
But there was nothing I could physically do from an hour away.
By the time I arrived, the transformer was already on the flatbed.
It looked strangely small sitting in the open air.
The fence had been cut.
The cable ends were capped and taped.
Celeste stood beside her SUV.
She looked satisfied.
"I gave you many chances," she said.
I ignored her.
I stared at the equipment.
"Did the utility isolate the feed?"
She frowned.
"The contractor knows what he's doing."
That was when the first streetlight went dark.
Then another.
The clubhouse disappeared into darkness.
A garage door stopped halfway.
The irrigation system in the median stopped spraying.
One row of houses went dark.
Then another.
Then another.
Celeste looked around.
"What did you do?"
"I just got here."
"You have to fix this."
I pointed at the flatbed.
"You removed it."
The first utility truck arrived eleven minutes later.
The technician stepped out.
He didn't speak to Celeste.
He didn't speak to me.
He went directly to the pad.
He examined the cables.
Then he got on the radio.
Two more trucks arrived.
Then a white utility pickup.
Grant Hensley stepped out.
He wore a hard hat and safety glasses.
He walked slowly toward the pad.
He photographed everything.
The cut fence.
The anchor bolts.
The cable ends.
The flatbed.
The boom truck.
The crew.
Then he looked at Celeste.
"Where is the transformer?"
She pointed toward the flatbed.
"It was relocated."
"Who authorized you to remove the transformer feeding nearly two hundred homes?"
The yard became silent.
Celeste blinked.
"You misunderstand."
"No."
"The transformer serves Mr. Avery's property."
Grant turned his tablet toward her.
A network diagram appeared.
He explained what the equipment actually did.
He explained the original development agreement.
He explained the transition point.
He explained the distribution circuits.
Celeste stared at the screen.
"The association was never informed."
Grant looked at her.
"The association was informed before you were president."
He opened another file.
An infrastructure coordination agreement.
The association's legal name appeared on it.
There was a signature.
There was a date.
There were obligations.
Celeste's face changed.
Derek arrived at that moment, running down the access road.
He looked at the flatbed.
Then Grant.
Then Celeste.
"You actually did it," he whispered.
Celeste turned on him.
"What does that mean?"