Some were from reporters.
Some were from people asking whether I could build bridges for private driveways.
One man wanted to know if we could install a drawbridge across his swimming pool because his brother-in-law kept visiting.
I told him that sounded like a family issue rather than an engineering problem.
He asked for a quote anyway.
Then came the less entertaining calls.
The county wanted our inspection records.
The emergency management office needed a written incident report.
Our insurance company wanted to know why our equipment had appeared on national television.
And the HOA’s attorney wanted to speak with me.
That last call made my stomach tighten.
His name was Martin Keene.
He sounded polite, tired, and deeply unhappy about the career decisions that had brought him into contact with Serenity Springs.
“Mr. Mercer,” he began, “I’m calling regarding the events at Cypress Creek Bridge.”
“I figured.”
“First, I want to clarify that the association did not authorize Mrs. McCluskey to obstruct an evacuation.”
“That’s good, because she did.”
“Yes. We’re aware.”
“She was holding your legal opinion.”
There was a pause.
“That opinion concerned ordinary commercial use of privately maintained roads. It did not address emergency evacuation orders.”
“She seemed pretty confident.”
“Mrs. McCluskey has a tendency to interpret documents creatively.”
I almost laughed.
“That’s one way to describe it.”
He continued.
“The board is conducting an internal review. We would appreciate copies of any photographs or records you have.”
“Are you threatening legal action?”
“No, Mr. Mercer. I’m trying to prevent approximately twelve different lawsuits.”
That got my attention.
“What?”
“Several residents have retained counsel.”
I sat up.
“Against me?”
“Against the association.”
For the first time since the hurricane, I smiled.
“Well. Good luck with that.”
He sighed.
“Thank you. I suspect we’ll need it.”
The next five days were a blur.
Apex had a standing agreement with the county for emergency support, so the Daves and I spent our days clearing debris, transporting supplies, and helping with temporary repairs.
We removed fallen branches from access roads.
We delivered generators to a small medical clinic.
We helped an elderly couple cover a damaged roof before the next rainstorm.
The work was exhausting.
It was also the kind of work I loved.
Real problems.
Clear priorities.
People who cared more about whether something functioned than whether it matched an approved color chart.
On the fourth day, we returned to Cypress Creek Canal to retrieve the pontoon system.
The county had completed the bridge inspection and reopened the original crossing with temporary restrictions.
Our structure had done its job.
We dismantled it under an approved recovery plan, inspected the components, and loaded them onto the flatbed.
Little Dave documented every connection.
Big Dave handled the lifting equipment.
I supervised the work and tried not to think about the bill for replacement hardware.
That was when Mr. Henderson approached.
He lived three houses down from me.
Until that morning, our longest conversation had concerned whether my hedge was four inches taller than the permitted height.
He carried a six-pack of craft beer.
“Leo.”
“Mr. Henderson.”
He held out the beer.
“Thought you might want these.”
I looked at the cans.
“What’s the occasion?”
He shrugged.
“You got my wife out before the storm. She was in the blue sedan.”
I remembered her.
She’d been crying quietly while waiting for her turn.
“Glad she made it.”
He nodded.
Then looked toward the bridge.
“I owe you an apology.”
That surprised me.
“For what?”
“I complained about your truck last year.”
“I know.”
He blinked.
“You know?”
“Brenda wasn’t exactly discreet.”
He looked embarrassed.
“I thought it made the neighborhood look cluttered.”
“And now?”
He studied the Beast.
“Now I think it’s a pretty good-looking truck.”
I accepted the beer.
“That’s progress.”
He laughed and walked away.
Then Mrs. Gable appeared with a container of chocolate chip cookies.
She hugged me before I could object.
“Dorothy’s fine,” she announced. “And my sister says you’re welcome for Thanksgiving.”
“Does that include the cats?”
“Of course.”
“Then I’ll need protective equipment.”
She laughed.
Over the next hour, more neighbors stopped by.
A retired teacher brought sandwiches.
A young father offered to help clean my driveway.
A woman I’d never met thanked me because her elderly mother had crossed the pontoon bridge in one of the first cars.
People who’d spent years avoiding eye contact at the mailboxes were suddenly introducing themselves.
I had lived in Serenity Springs for four years.
Until that afternoon, I’d known perhaps fifteen residents by name.
Now I couldn’t walk ten feet without someone wanting to shake my hand.
It was strange.
Wonderful, but strange.
And then I heard what had happened to Brenda.
Apparently, after the evacuation, she’d spent the following morning sending violation notices to residents who had used the temporary crossing.
She’d accused them of unauthorized access to common property.
She’d threatened fines for damage to landscaping.
She’d even prepared a separate notice for me concerning excessive noise during emergency construction.
Unfortunately for Brenda, she sent those notices while the community was still dealing with storm damage.
The response was immediate.
Residents began forwarding the notices to one another.
Then to the board.
Then to the association’s attorney.
By the end of the day, more than eighty homeowners had signed a petition demanding her removal.
The remaining board members held an emergency meeting by video call.
Brenda refused to attend.
Instead, she emailed everyone a nineteen-page statement explaining why her enforcement actions had been legally justified.
The board voted to suspend her enforcement authority pending review.
Two days later, she resigned.
I heard the news from Little Dave.
He came into my garage holding his phone.
“Boss.”
“What?”
“Brenda resigned.”
I looked up from a generator.
“What?”
“Effective immediately.”
“You’re kidding.”
He showed me the message.
It was real.
For several seconds, I simply stared.
Then Big Dave walked in.
“Brenda?” he asked.
“Resigned,” Little Dave said.
Big Dave nodded.
“Good.”
And went back to work.
