“We maintain standards here,” she told Nathan during her first visit.

“That protects everyone's investment.”

Nathan thanked her for the cake.

She smiled.

Then her eyes moved beyond him.

Into the garage.

The rear quarter panel of the Mustang was visible beneath the raised door.

“What is that?”

“A restoration project.”

“What year?”

“Sixty-seven.”

Her expression changed.

“My son is obsessed with classic Mustangs.”

Nathan said nothing.

“Tyler would love to see it.”

Nathan lowered the garage door slightly.

“It isn't finished.”

Vanessa smiled.

“Of course.”

She lingered.

Then she left.

Three weeks later, Tyler Crowley walked into Nathan's garage without permission.

Nathan was replacing a brake line when he heard footsteps.

He looked up.

Tyler was twenty, athletic, confident, and clearly accustomed to being welcomed wherever he went.

“That’s a real Fastback?”

“Yes.”

“What engine?”

Nathan continued working.

“A 289.”

“Original?”

“Mostly.”

Tyler walked around the vehicle.

He touched the fender.

Nathan stood.

“You need to remain outside the garage.”

Tyler looked surprised.

“I’m just looking.”

“You can look from the driveway.”

The young man stayed several minutes anyway.

He asked about the transmission.

The restoration cost.

The value.

Where Nathan had purchased it.

Nathan gave short answers.

That evening, Vanessa sent him a message.

Tyler cannot stop talking about your Mustang. My husband and I would love to discuss purchasing it as a graduation present. Would Saturday work?

Nathan replied:

The car is not for sale.

The answer came almost immediately.

Every vehicle has a fair price. Let’s at least talk like neighbors.

Nathan did not respond.

Saturday morning, Vanessa and her husband arrived anyway.

Grant Crowley was a commercial-property developer.

He possessed the smooth handshake and calm smile of a man accustomed to making offers that other people eventually accepted.

He examined the Mustang from the driveway.

“I'll give you thirty thousand today.”

“No.”

“Thirty-eight.”

Nathan shook his head.

“Forty-five.”

Nathan looked directly at him.

“You are attempting to purchase the only object my son and I built with my late wife. There is no number.”

Grant's smile tightened.

“I respect sentiment. But cars deteriorate. Cash doesn't.”

“Then you should keep yours.”

Vanessa laughed awkwardly.

Grant stopped smiling.

They left ten minutes later.

Three days afterward, Nathan received his first HOA violation.

UNMAINTAINED VEHICLE VISIBLE FROM PUBLIC RIGHT-OF-WAY.

Fine: $150.

The photograph showed the Mustang through Nathan's garage window.

A thin layer of ordinary dust covered the roof.

Nathan reviewed the covenants.

The HOA prohibited disabled vehicles stored outdoors.

Nothing prohibited an insured classic car inside a private garage.

He submitted an appeal.

The board rejected it without a hearing.

Instead of paying, Nathan requested evidence.

He asked for the enforcement policy.

The meeting minutes.

Records of similar violations.

The photographs.

The identity of the complainant.

No answer came.

Then a late fee appeared.

Two weeks later came another violation.

EXCESSIVE VEHICLE NOISE DURING QUIET HOURS.

Fine: $250.

The complaint claimed Nathan had started the Mustang after eleven at night.

Nathan reviewed his security footage.

The Mustang had not moved.

The only vehicle he had started that evening was his pickup truck at 6:10 the following morning.

He saved the footage.

Then came the third violation.

OIL LEAK ON DRIVEWAY.

Nathan walked outside.

A dark puddle sat near the curb.

The Mustang had remained inside for more than a week.

Behind a nearby utility box, he found an abandoned plastic oil container.

He photographed it without touching it.

Then he called the county sheriff's nonemergency number.

He deliberately did not call his own department.

A deputy arrived.

The container was collected.

Nathan identified himself only when the deputy became suspicious of how familiar he seemed with evidence procedures.