Chapter 3

Sunday morning came in gray and wet, the kind of August morning that makes you check the sky twice. Cyrus drove to the corner lot at seven, before the street woke up, and walked the perimeter the way he did every Sunday: down the driveway, along the fence line, around the back where the old oak dropped acorns on the grass, up the other side to the street.

He checked the hedge for branches the rain had bent. He checked the fence boards for rot. He picked up the acorns, because his uncle had hated them, and because some habits are just love that runs on a schedule.

The house itself was locked and quiet. He didn't go in. He'd gone in once, the day after the funeral, to get the will and the deed, and he'd stood in the kitchen long enough to see the coffee cup still in the sink and the calendar still open to the right month. He'd closed the door and hadn't gone back. The lawn was the work. The house was the memory. He could keep the lawn alive and leave the memory sealed.

At nine, Junelle Pyke came out of her house two doors down, wearing a white visor and a rain jacket over her teal track set — her power uniform, Marisol called it, not unkindly. She walked down the street with her clipboard in a plastic sleeve and stopped at the end of Cyrus's driveway.

"You're here early," she said. It wasn't a question.

Cyrus had a garbage bag in one hand, full of acorns. He looked at her, and the rain picked up a half-notch, pattering on the driveway concrete.

"We need to talk about the vote," Junelle said. "I want to make sure there's no confusion. This isn't personal. It's about standards."

Cyrus tied the bag shut and set it by the curb.

"The association has given you every opportunity to maintain this property—" she began.