At 6:18, a recovery truck turned onto our street.
I almost applauded.
The driver got out, photographed Denise’s car from several angles, checked the registration, then spoke to someone on the phone.
A few minutes later, a council enforcement officer arrived.
I had made two calls before Denise woke up.
One to the local authority’s parking enforcement line.
One to the approved vehicle-removal contractor they directed me to after confirming that a car obstructing access to a residential driveway could be dealt with if the circumstances met their rules.
I had spent the previous evening reading everything.
Twice.
Because I wanted a lesson.
Not a criminal record.
At 6:31, the truck operator began securing the front wheels.
At 6:33, Denise’s bedroom light came on.
I actually checked the clock.
I don’t know why that detail still makes me laugh.
Her curtains snapped open.
For three seconds, nothing happened.
Then they shut again.
Ten seconds later, her front door flew open.
