The first warning showed up as a curl of paper under our wiper blade: block letters, three exclamation points,

and a threat that sounded like it came from a neighborhood HOA that didn’t exist. “One car per house! Move the extra one or else!”

We laughed. Our street has no such rule, and both of our cars were tucked legally along the curb in front of our place.

We figured a grumpy welcome-to-the-block, nothing more.

Three days later, the morning yanked us awake with the grind of winches and the metallic clank of chains.

I pulled the curtains and saw two tow trucks squatting by the curb like vultures. Both of our cars were already lifted by their front wheels.

We shot outside in pajamas and slippers, hearts thudding. And there she was—our new neighbor, arms folded, a satisfied little smile that said she’d been waiting for this moment since we unloaded the moving van.

“Well,” she called, loud enough for the tow guys to hear, “maybe now you’ll listen when someone tells you the rules.”

I couldn’t help it; a laugh bubbled up. It just slipped out.

Her smile twitched. “What’s so funny?”

“Wow,” I said, drawing it out, “you really went through with it, huh?”

She frowned, confused by the lack of panic. “Yes. Because there’s one car per house on this street.”