Part 1: 

Blue lights strobe off the pine trees, painting the snow in fractured pulses. It would be beautiful if it weren’t so stupid.

The SUV parked at the base of my driveway has “Community Enforcement” stenciled on the side in a font that looks like it was chosen by someone who thinks Comic Sans is too edgy. The badge on the woman’s chest gleams so bright you can still see the Amazon peel film clinging to its edges.

She’s shouting that my wife is under arrest.

My wife.

For cabin code violations.

Elise stands on the porch in her slippers, clutching a mug of hot cocoa, looking less like a criminal and more like someone who accidentally signed up for a reality show she didn’t audition for.

I step outside, slippers crunching into frost. Behind Loretta Fen—queen of Pine Glass Summit, and apparently self-appointed sheriff—two men in matching polo shirts unfurl plastic zip ties with the nervous excitement of teenagers about to get kicked out of Comic-Con.

“Ma’am,” Loretta says, reading from a laminated card like she’s ordering at a drive-thru, “you are in violation of Homeowners’ Association statute four-seven-b. You have the right to—”

I hold up a hand. “There is no four-seven-b.”

Her eyes narrow. “Don’t interrupt an officer of the law.”

“Loretta,” I sigh, “you’re the president of an HOA. Not a constable, not a deputy, not even mall security. And there’s no law against my wife having a swing on our porch.”

Behind her, the two polo-shirted sidekicks puff out their chests. Their belts have plastic holsters with nothing inside them but enthusiasm.

Loretta squares her shoulders. “You can either comply or face community arrest.”

“Community arrest?” Elise laughs. “What does that even mean? You’re going to give me detention?”

That’s when I feel my phone vibrate. Three quick pulses.
The signal.

I text one word to a contact group named Rangers + Marshals PineGlass:

Theater.

It’s code for “not an emergency, but bring real badges.”

Loretta keeps reading from her laminated sheet, oblivious. “Per Pine Glass Preservation Society regulations, all decorative elements must maintain harmony with the mountain environment. You were given two warnings about your—”

“—swing, yes,” Elise interrupts cheerfully. “It’s made of cedar, Loretta. It’s more mountain than you are.”

The two men exchange nervous looks. One whispers something to the other that sounds a lot like, “She said harmony, right?”

Loretta glares at them, then back to Elise. “Don’t test me. I have authority.”

She holds up her badge. It has an eagle on it. A clip-art eagle.

Upside down.

I take a step forward, voice level. “Hands off my wife. Identify your agency.”

Loretta blinks. “What?”

“Your agency.” I nod at her badge. “Who issued it?”

She stammers, “Community Police Services.”

“Which is…?”

She gestures vaguely at the men beside her.

“Us,” one of them says helpfully.

I stare at him. “You’re not even wearing the same logo.”

The second guy looks down at his polo. “It was in the wash.”

Elise is filming now. Calm, steady, the picture of grace under idiocy.

“Ma’am,” I say to Loretta, “what you’re doing is called impersonation of a peace officer and attempted unlawful restraint.”

Her nostrils flare. “What are you, some kind of mall ninja with a law degree from the internet?”

“No,” I say softly. “I command a U.S. Marshals fugitive task force out of the Southern District.”

That lands like a snowball to the face.

Her mouth opens, closes, opens again. “You can’t pull rank here. This is an HOA matter.”

“Loretta,” I say, “you are about to make it a federal one.”

Eight minutes later, the real sirens arrive.

Two county patrol cars crest the hill, red and blue flashing off the trees. Behind them come two state rangers—one with a hat so wide it could shade an entire picnic—and a dark SUV I know well.

Out steps Deputy U.S. Marshal Ortega, my right hand, my headache, my friend.

He’s grinning before he even closes the door. “Boss, you call for theater?”

Loretta’s face drains of color. “This is a private matter!”

Ortega tilts his head, eyes the badges. “Private theater, then?” He plucks one off a polo-shirted chest. The plastic clip pops. “You got these off Amazon?”

“Office Depot,” the man mutters.

“Ah,” Ortega says. “Bulk discount.”

The county deputy, a big man with a tired voice, steps forward. “Ma’am, you’re being detained for impersonation of an officer, unlawful restraint, and misuse of emergency lighting.”

Loretta stammers, “You can’t! I’m acting under HOA authority!”

He shakes his head. “HOA doesn’t have arrest powers, ma’am.”

Her lips tremble. “But… community governance law—”

The ranger interrupts, pulling out a clipboard that actually means something. “Show us your charter.”

Loretta hands him a Microsoft Word document with a pixelated eagle header and a signature line that says L. Fen, Commandant.

The ranger squints. “You even spelled constabulary wrong.”

“Constabularary,” she says defensively. “It’s British.”

“Sure,” he says. “And I’m the Duke of Oregon.”

It takes less than ten minutes for the farce to unravel.

The fake badges are bagged as evidence. The “arrest warrant” turns out to be a scrapbook printout with a watermark from Pinterest. The siren on her golf cart still has the barcode sticker on the side.

By dawn, the headlines have hit the local app:

HOA Raid Fails — Real Cops Appear
Constabularary Catastrophe at Pine Glass Summit

The county prosecutor charges Loretta and her two sidekicks with impersonation, fraud, and misuse of emergency equipment.

The state AG tacks on a consumer fraud count after discovering she’d been selling “security patrol subscriptions” to homeowners for $25 a month—funding her own personal police fantasy.

Elise and I watch it unfold over pancakes.

“You think she’ll show up at the next HOA meeting?” she asks.

“Only if they let her Zoom in from court.”

Elise laughs. “Maybe she’ll run for president again.”

“She can’t,” I say. “Probation condition.”

The courthouse is standing-room-only the day of the plea hearing.

Loretta’s dressed like she’s attending her own impeachment—navy blazer, pearls, and a look that could curdle cream.

The judge reads the charges in a voice that sounds like gravel and patience.

“Criminal impersonation of a peace officer, false imprisonment, consumer fraud, and misuse of emergency equipment. Do you understand these charges?”

Loretta nods. “Yes, Your Honor.”

“Do you plead guilty?”

A long pause. Then a small voice. “Yes.”

Her lawyer pats her shoulder. The room hums with quiet satisfaction.

The sentence: two years probation, 250 hours community service, $2,500 in fines, restitution of $8,300 to the HOA, and—my favorite line—

“Permanent prohibition from serving on any homeowners association board within the state.”

The judge adds, deadpan, “Community service to be performed at the county sheriff’s substation—filing paperwork, under supervision.”

Ortega leans over and whispers, “Poetic justice.”

I grin. “Wait till she realizes the stapler’s locked.”

That night, I hang a second string of lights under the eaves—warm white bulbs glowing like quiet victory.

Elise hangs a wooden sign beside the porch swing. It reads:

Protected by Real Laws, Not Fake Cops.

Three neighbors drop by with cookies and apologies for never standing up to her sooner. One of them, old Mr. Jensen from across the lake, says, “You think she’ll be back?”

“Not in uniform,” I say.

“Shame,” he says with a chuckle. “The show was better than cable.”

Later, when the porch is quiet again, Elise curls against my side with her mug of cocoa. The pines sway overhead, the stars reflecting off the lake like a mirror of calm.

“You know,” she says softly, “we came here for peace and quiet.”

I nod. “And somehow we got a criminal investigation and a court hearing.”

She smiles. “That’s our kind of quiet, I guess.”

I look at the faint glow of the porch lights, the swing, the ridiculous trout-shaped mailbox Loretta once called “decorative noncompliance.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Quiet with good lighting.”

And for the first time in weeks, the mountain air finally feels peaceful again.

Part 2:

If you’ve ever lived in a small mountain town, you know there’s no such thing as secrets — only delayed gossip.

By the time Loretta Fen’s mugshot hit the county website, the rumor mill at Pine Glass Summit was grinding like a rusty snowblower. Everyone had a version of the story.
Some said she’d been framed. Others said she was running a militia. A few swore she was connected to a “shadow HOA” that operated in the next valley over.

The truth, as usual, was dumber and darker than anyone guessed.

Three weeks after Loretta’s sentencing, Elise and I were almost back to normal life.

The trout mailbox gleamed in the morning sun. The porch swing swayed lazily when the wind came down from the ridge. The warm white lights we’d draped after her arrest glowed like victory ribbons against the cedar siding.

Normal was starting to feel possible again.

Then came the email.

From: [email protected]
Subject: YOU SHOULD HAVE LET HER WORK

The message was short:

You embarrassed the wrong people. The HOA isn’t done with you. Expect company.

Elise read it twice, her expression going from confusion to disbelief.
“You think it’s real?”

I scrolled to the bottom — no signature, no address, no threat beyond implication.
“I think it’s pathetic,” I said. “And maybe worth forwarding to Ortega.”

Which I did.

He called two hours later. “Boss, I’ll make some calls. Probably just an internet tough guy, but I’ll run the header.”

“Appreciate it,” I said.

He paused. “You know, I keep thinking about something. Loretta didn’t make all those fake IDs by herself. The lamination, the badge designs, the vinyl decals — that’s not craft store work.”

“She had help?”

He grunted. “Or a supplier.”

Two days later, the supplier showed up.

Literally.

A UPS truck rolled up the hill, driver whistling, carrying a package about the size of a small dog. “Delivery for a Pine Glass Security Association?” he asked.

Elise blinked. “There’s no Pine Glass Security Association.”

“That’s what it says on the label.” He flipped the box around. The return address read Pacific Shield Tactical Gear, LLC.

I signed for it and brought it inside. The box was sealed tight, shipping tape crisscrossed like a spider web. I sliced it open.

Inside were ten new badges.

Chrome. Heavy. Realistic.

Each engraved with:
Pine Glass Summit Enforcement Division

I let out a slow whistle. “She ordered replacements.”

Elise’s eyes widened. “You’re kidding.”

“Look at the timestamp,” I said, pointing to the packing slip. “Ordered last month. After her conviction.”

Elise leaned against the counter. “So someone else in the HOA’s picking up where she left off.”

I nodded. “And they just delivered their evidence to my front door.”

That night, I called Ortega again.

“Got something for you,” I said. “Loretta’s sequel just arrived via UPS.”

He groaned. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope. New badges. Better quality. Same name.”

I heard the sound of keys jingling. “Text me the return label. I’ll have the postal inspectors pull the order history.”

He paused. “You still keeping the cabin under your name?”

“For now.”

“You might want to put it under a trust,” he said. “Because if this crew’s stupid enough to cosplay cops again, they’ll probably come for round two.”

He wasn’t wrong.

Two weeks later, they came.

It started with a drone.

A quiet hum at dusk, barely audible over the lake breeze. Elise noticed it first — a speck hovering above the treeline, dipping low over the porch, blinking red.

“Tell me that’s not what I think it is,” she said.

I walked out with binoculars. The drone was consumer-grade — DJI Phantom, probably. But it wasn’t the model that mattered. It was what was taped to its underside.

A small envelope.

It dropped it right on our porch like a carrier pigeon with boundary issues, then zipped back into the woods.

Elise stared at it. “You’re kidding me.”

I picked it up with tongs — yes, literal tongs — and opened it carefully. Inside was a folded sheet of printer paper.

Notice of Continuing Investigation
To: Nolan and Elise Vance
From: Pine Glass Enforcement Board
Re: Ongoing Violations of Aesthetic Standards

Failure to comply with community guidelines will result in renewed enforcement action.

Elise snorted. “Renewed enforcement action? What are they gonna do, send another golf cart?”

I frowned. “Not if they’re escalating.”

I called the sheriff’s department that night. The deputy who’d booked Loretta recognized my voice immediately.

“Mr. Vance, tell me you’re joking.”

“Wish I was.”

He came out the next morning. We watched him pick up the envelope with a gloved hand, turning it over.

“Same paper stock as the old citations,” he said. “But different printer. Different ink.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning somebody else is running the show.”

He sighed, scribbling in his notebook. “I’ll start with the HOA board roster. Loretta’s vice president was a guy named Reuben Denton. Contractor. Did her printing, apparently.”

“Where is he now?”

“Unknown,” the deputy said grimly. “Hasn’t been seen since the day of the plea hearing.”

Three days later, I found him.

Or rather, he found me.

I was stacking firewood when an old Chevy pickup rolled up the gravel drive. The man behind the wheel was in his sixties — wiry, nervous, wearing sunglasses despite the cloud cover.

He didn’t bother getting out. Just rolled down the window halfway.

“You Nolan Vance?”

I nodded.

He looked around like the trees might be wired. “You didn’t hear it from me,” he said quietly, “but Loretta wasn’t the one who started this.”

“Go on.”

He handed me a thumb drive. “Everything’s on here. Emails, bank transfers, meeting notes. The HOA board thought they were setting up a ‘community defense initiative.’ Loretta just ran with it. But someone paid for all of it. Someone outside Pine Glass.”

“Who?”

He hesitated. “A developer out of Carson City. Name’s Harrow. He wanted leverage. Scare people off their properties so he could buy cheap.”

I frowned. “And you?”

He gave a dry laugh. “I printed badges, man. Not my proudest moment.”

Then he drove off before I could say another word.

That night, I plugged the drive into a burner laptop.

The files were organized in folders: Budgets, Minutes, Contracts, Harrow Holdings LLC.

The emails told the rest of the story.

Harrow had been paying “consulting fees” to the HOA under a front called Summit Security Solutions. In exchange, Loretta and her crew would pressure cabin owners into compliance citations, fines, and “voluntary sales.”

Three families had already sold. Two more were on the hook.

And next on the list?

VANCE PROPERTY.

Elise leaned over my shoulder, reading the screen. “They were going to force us out.”

I nodded. “Or worse — provoke us into a fight they could spin into a lawsuit.”

She crossed her arms. “Well. They picked the wrong federal agency to mess with.”

By dawn, Ortega had half his task force combing through the data.

He called me at noon. “Boss, your contractor wasn’t lying. This Harrow guy’s dirty. He’s got shell companies all over the state — same pattern. Targets rural communities, funds fake enforcement, buys foreclosed lots cheap.”

“You can tie him to Loretta?”

“Already did. Wire transfers straight to her HOA account. Looks like she skimmed a little for herself, but most of it came from him.”

He paused, voice hardening. “You want us to move?”

“Not yet,” I said. “Let him make the next mistake.”

He didn’t make us wait long.

Two nights later, Elise woke me with a whisper. “Nolan. Someone’s outside.”

I grabbed the flashlight and my sidearm. The beam cut across the porch — two silhouettes by the firewood stack. One was holding something metal.

“Back inside,” I murmured.

Then, loud enough to carry, “Identify yourselves.”

The figures froze. One dropped the metal object.

“I said identify yourselves.”

The shorter one stammered, “Maintenance crew!”

“At midnight?”

They bolted.

I sprinted out the door, flashlight bouncing, caught sight of a dark pickup at the end of the drive — no plates, no tail lights. It tore off into the woods, gravel spraying.

By the time Ortega arrived twenty minutes later, all that was left were tire tracks and the object they’d dropped: a can of black spray paint.

On the side of our cabin, half-finished in dripping letters, were the words:

MOVE OUT.

Elise leaned against me as the rangers documented everything.

“Guess they made the next mistake,” she said.

“Yeah,” I murmured. “And now we get to make ours count.”

Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned in two decades of chasing fugitives, it’s this:

Some people only learn when the law knocks louder than they do.

Part 3 

Morning comes thin and gray, fog hanging over the lake like a held breath.
Elise stands beside the window, phone in hand, replaying the door-camera footage of the two men who tried to tag our cabin.
Same black pickup. Same shaky flashlight beam. Same terrified sprint when I shouted.

“They didn’t even wear masks,” she mutters.
“Confidence,” I say. “Or stupidity. They’re cousins.”

By noon Ortega and his team have run the license plate fragments from the pickup.
One partial hit connects to a vehicle registered to Summit Restoration LLC, a shell company inside a maze of Harrow Holdings subsidiaries.
It’s always the same pattern: the man owns nothing directly, controls everything indirectly.

Rule one of chasing grifters: follow the receipts, not the rhetoric.

I call Ortega.
“Pull property records on Pine Glass,” I tell him. “If Harrow’s trying to buy out cabins, I want to know which ones he already owns.”

He whistles low when the report hits his tablet.
“Half the south ridge is under Summit Restoration. Bought cheap from owners who ‘voluntarily’ sold after compliance fines.”
“Loretta’s fines.”
“Exactly.”

We meet that afternoon at the county courthouse—neutral ground, and close enough to the Sheriff’s office if we need a room with locks.
Ortega spreads photos across the table: copies of checks, HOA minutes, wire transfers from Harrow’s Nevada account to Loretta Fen’s “Community Security Fund.”

He taps one page.
“See this memo line? ‘Operational Stipend.’ That’s lawyer-speak for hush money.”

Another photo shows a contract addendum: Harrow’s promise to “assist with enforcement logistics.”

I lean back. “He bankrolled her cosplay.”

“Yup. And when she got arrested, he thought he could keep it running under new management.”

Ortega closes the folder. “We can build conspiracy to commit wire fraud, possibly extortion. You want me to take it federal?”

“Not yet,” I say. “If we pull the trigger too early, he’ll lawyer up, call it a business misunderstanding. I want him standing in front of the house he tried to steal when the cuffs click.”

Two nights later, Loretta Fen calls my work cell.

Her number flashes like a bad memory.
I let it ring twice before answering.
“Loretta.”

She sounds smaller, voice scraped raw.
“Mr. Vance, I need to speak with you. It’s important.”

“You have a probation officer for that.”

“This isn’t about me,” she says quickly. “It’s about Harrow. He’s going to kill someone.”

I pause. “Where are you?”

“Public library parking lot, Pine Hollow. Please—just come alone.”

Elise hears the tone in my voice as I grab my jacket.
“You’re not going alone,” she says.
“Technically, I’m never alone,” I answer, texting Ortega our coordinates.

Loretta looks nothing like the self-styled commander who marched up my porch with a fake badge.
She’s pale, jittery, gripping a Styrofoam cup like it’s an anchor.
When she sees my truck headlights, she waves frantically.

“He knows I talked to the investigators,” she blurts. “Harrow. He sent people to my house last night. Said if I testify, I’ll end up in the lake.”

“Did you call the sheriff?”

“They think I’m paranoid. They think I’m still trying to play cop.”
Tears streak the sides of her face. “You’re the only one who’ll believe me.”

I study her for a long moment.
Guilt, fear, maybe honesty. Hard to tell which weighs more.

“Start talking.”

She slides a folder across the seat. Inside are printed emails between Harrow and a logistics firm in Reno.
Invoices for “property reclamation services.”
Dates. Times. GPS coordinates.

He’d scheduled “removals” for three more cabins this week. Mine included.

By midnight we have the sting planned.

Ortega loops in county deputies and a pair of state investigators.
We plant cameras around the perimeter of Pine Glass Summit and stage my cabin as bait: lights on, no vehicles visible, motion sensors armed.

The first truck rolls in at 2:14 a.m.
Two men climb out—work boots, black hoodies, bolt cutters.
They move like people who’ve done this before.

Elise watches from the Ranger’s SUV down the road, radio pressed to her ear.
Ortega whispers, “Wait for contact.”

The intruders reach the porch. One starts unscrewing the security camera, the other sprays a fresh line of red paint across the siding: PROPERTY RECLAIMED.

That’s the cue.

Flashlights blaze.
“Federal Marshals! Hands where I can see them!”

They freeze mid-stroke. One drops the can, the other bolts for the truck.
He doesn’t make it ten feet before he’s face-down in pine needles, courtesy of Ortega’s tackle that’ll be county legend by morning.

Inside their vehicle we find invoices, radios, and a folder labeled Summit Project Phase II.
Top sheet: Owner — Harrow Holdings LLC. Acquisition Timeline: 30 days.

The following afternoon we raid Harrow’s Carson City office.

It’s not glamorous—just drywall, glass desks, and a view of a strip mall—but the evidence is pure gold: forged HOA correspondence, payment ledgers, and a draft press release titled “New Luxury Retreat to Replace Outdated Cabin Community.”

Harrow himself walks in mid-search, tan suit and crocodile smile.
“Can I help you gentlemen?”

Ortega flashes the warrant. “You already have.”

We cuff him before he finishes saying “investors.”

He tries the usual lines—misunderstanding, rogue contractor, overzealous local partner—but every lie collapses under his own signatures.

The moment that really lands is when the deputy reads him the impersonation add-on:

“Conspiracy to sponsor unlawful enforcement activity resulting in fraud and intimidation.”

His expression flickers.
“I didn’t authorize costumes!”

I almost laugh. “You paid for the badges, Harold.”

“It’s Harrow!”

“Not for long,” Ortega says. “In about ten minutes it’ll be ‘Defendant.’”

Loretta testifies three weeks later.
It’s messy—half confession, half redemption—but it seals the case.
Harrow pleads out to wire fraud, criminal conspiracy, and intimidation.
Eighteen months federal, five years probation, restitution north of half a million.

Loretta gets her probation extended but avoids jail, thanks to cooperation.
She’ll be filing real forms now, at a real office, under real supervision.

When the verdict hits, the Pine Glass Summit HOA board resigns en masse.
The county votes to dissolve the association entirely.
Freedom smells like woodsmoke and coffee again.

A week after sentencing, I stand on the same porch where it all started.
Elise strings up a third line of lights—petty but beautiful.
Across the lake, the reflection looks like a constellation we built ourselves.

She leans on my shoulder.
“Think we’re finally done with fake cops and wannabe tyrants?”

I smile. “If not, I’ll keep the porch light on for them.”

She laughs. “You mean the warm white illumination of unauthorized glory?”

“Exactly that.”

Somewhere down the hill, a ranger’s truck hums past, real siren off, just a friendly wave through the dark.
For the first time since we bought this cabin, the quiet feels earned.

Part 4 

Winter came early to Pine Glass that year.

The first snow fell before Halloween, burying the old wooden “Community Enforcement” sign in a neat white shroud. For once, the neighborhood app didn’t explode with Loretta Fen’s all-caps “CODE ALERTS.” It just stayed silent, like the mountain had taken a long, overdue breath.

When I’d bought the cabin, I told Elise it was to escape noise — the constant city sirens, the cases, the paperwork that followed me even into dreams.
But I’d learned something out here in the pines: quiet isn’t the absence of sound. It’s the absence of nonsense.

The county formally dissolved the Pine Glass Summit HOA in December.
The motion passed 8–0, with one abstention from a board member who claimed he was “misled by an overzealous president.”
No one bothered to correct him.

Each homeowner received a packet from the county clerk explaining the transition to a simple road maintenance co-op.
No dues. No decorative restrictions.
If you wanted to hang neon flamingos on your roof, that was now between you and your power bill.

Neighbors celebrated the new freedom like they’d just been liberated from a small, paperwork-based dictatorship.
One couple down the hill hosted a “No-Rules BBQ,” where everyone brought the tackiest lawn ornament they could find.
We contributed the trout-shaped mailbox Loretta had hated so much.
It won “Most Offensive to Mountain Harmony” by unanimous vote.

Loretta herself faded from public view for a while.
Her probation required 250 hours at the county sheriff’s substation — filing actual forms under actual supervision.
Ortega would text me updates occasionally:

ORTEGA: “Loretta tried to give herself a badge for filing efficiency. Judge added another 50 hours.”
ME: “Justice served warm.”

But a few months later, she surprised everyone.
One morning, the sheriff sent me a photo: Loretta, smiling awkwardly, standing next to a community donation bin filled with winter coats.
The caption read: Volunteer hours exceeded. No clipboard in sight.

Maybe people do change when the stapler’s not theirs to command.

By spring, the mountain thawed. The lake cracked open, the pines shed their snow like old regrets, and the trout mailbox gleamed in the sunlight again.
Elise and I sat on the porch swing — the same one that once triggered 14 separate violation notices — and watched the season return.

She sipped her coffee. “Feels strange, doesn’t it? No one measuring our grass height.”
“Tragic loss for democracy,” I said.
She nudged me. “You miss the drama.”
“Only when it’s someone else’s paperwork.”

Two months later, a plain envelope arrived in our mailbox.
No return address, just my name typed neatly.

Inside was a single sheet of lined paper:

Mr. and Mrs. Vance,
You were right about the quiet. It’s better when you’ve earned it.
Thank you for stopping me before I became something worse.
I’m starting a community garden with the sheriff’s office. No bylaws, I promise.
– L.F.

Elise read it twice, then smiled.
“She finally found a hobby that doesn’t involve arrest warrants.”
“Miracles happen,” I said.

I folded the note and tucked it behind the framed copy of our cabin deed — the one that now bore no mention of “Association Authority.”

That summer, Ortega and I went fishing at the lake.
He brought cheap beer and cheaper bait.
Around sunset he said, “You realize you’re a local legend now, right? People call you the guy who arrested his own HOA.”

“I didn’t arrest them,” I said. “I just let natural selection do the paperwork.”

He laughed. “Whatever you call it, you made one hell of a story.”

We sat in comfortable silence for a while, the kind that hums with old friendship and the buzz of distant crickets.
When we packed up, Ortega glanced at my porch lights twinkling across the lake.

“Those are staying forever, huh?”
“Oh yeah,” I said. “Every bulb is a trophy.”

The years rolled steady after that.
The cabin got a new coat of paint, a few more dents in the porch rail from late-night celebrations, and the kind of peace that sticks once you’ve defended it.

Every Christmas, a small envelope arrived — no name, just a hand-drawn pine tree. Inside would be a photo of Loretta and a few volunteers standing in front of a new sign:
Pine Glass Community Garden — Open to All.

No clipboards. No fake badges. Just dirt and laughter.

One evening, Elise looked up from her mug of cocoa.
“Do you ever miss the city?”
“Sometimes,” I said. “Then I remember golf-cart sirens.”
She smiled. “Do you ever think about selling?”
I looked out over the lake, the porch swing creaking gently beneath us.
“Not yet. The mountain still owes us a few quiet summers.”

Later, when the stars came out, I walked down to the end of the dock.
The lights from our porch shimmered in the water — warm, steady, defiant.
Somewhere in the distance, an owl called once, and everything went still.

For a moment, I thought about Loretta’s first “official citation,” about Harrow’s smug grin as the cuffs clicked, about the absurdity that turned into justice.

Then I thought about the message I’d sent that night — one word that brought real law back into a fake one: Theater.
Maybe that’s what all of this had been — a farce that accidentally stumbled into redemption.

I smiled. The mountain echoed it back.

When I finally went inside, Elise was asleep on the couch, a book open on her lap.
I draped a blanket over her and whispered the promise I’d made the day we moved in:

“No matter what happens, I’ll keep this place safe — from monsters, mayors, or makeshift marshals.”

She stirred, half-awake.
“You already did,” she murmured.

Outside, the warm white lights glowed against the dark pines — the quiet kind of beacon that says:
Home. Peace. No permits required.

THE END