By three o'clock on a humid Saturday afternoon, Oak Creek Estates had become almost painfully quiet.
The heat had settled over the Georgia neighborhood like a heavy blanket. Curtains were drawn. Ceiling fans turned behind windows. Somewhere several houses away, a lawn mower coughed once and then stopped.
At Lorraine Patterson's house on Elmwood Avenue, thirteen-year-old Imani Patterson was doing something completely ordinary.
She was watering flowers.
Her grandmother's blue hydrangeas lined the front walkway, large blossoms bending beneath the summer heat. Lorraine had planted them years earlier with her late husband, and she treated them almost like family.
"Don't drown them," Lorraine had warned that morning.
Imani had smiled.
"I know, Grandma."
"And don't forget the ones by the mailbox."
"I won't."
Lorraine had gone inside after lunch to rest. She had not been feeling especially energetic lately, and Dominique Patterson, Imani's mother, had called earlier to remind her that she would stop by later in the afternoon.
So Imani had taken responsibility for the flowers.
She wore denim shorts, pink Crocs, and a yellow T-shirt. Her braids were pulled into a loose ponytail, and one earbud rested in her left ear.
She was halfway through the flowerbed when she heard footsteps.
Not hurried footsteps.
Not friendly footsteps.
The sharp clicking of expensive shoes against concrete.
Imani looked up.
Marjorie Vale was crossing the street.
Marjorie was the president of the Oak Creek Estates Homeowners Association.
She was also the kind of person who seemed to believe the title gave her authority over everything within sight.
She wore white slacks, a pale cardigan, pearl earrings, and sunglasses pushed into her carefully arranged hair. In one hand she carried a clipboard.
Imani sighed quietly.
She had learned that a clipboard in Marjorie's hands usually meant trouble.
"Hello, Mrs. Vale."
Marjorie stopped at the edge of Lorraine's lawn.
She didn't return the greeting.
Instead, she looked at the hose.
Then at the flowers.
Then at the wet grass.
"What are you doing?"
Imani lowered the nozzle.
"Watering my grandmother's flowers."
"At three in the afternoon?"
Imani glanced toward the sun.
"Yes."
Marjorie folded her arms.
"Are you aware of the community's watering guidelines?"
"It's my grandmother's water."
"That isn't the point."
Imani frowned.
She had never understood why adults sometimes said something wasn't the point when it obviously was.
"My grandma told me to water them."
"Your grandmother is subject to the same rules as everyone else."
"I know."
"Then turn it off."
Imani hesitated.
"The flowers are really dry."
"I said turn it off."
Imani slowly lowered the nozzle.
She didn't want an argument.
She was thirteen. She knew enough to understand that some adults enjoyed arguing with children because children were expected to remain polite.
"I'll finish the flowerbed and then stop."
Marjorie's expression hardened.
"No. You will stop now."
Imani looked toward the house.
The curtains were still.
She didn't want to wake Lorraine.
"I'm almost finished."
Marjorie took a step onto the lawn.
"Do you live here?"
"No."
"Then you have no authority to decide what happens on this property."
Imani stared at her.
"I'm just watering flowers."
"You are a guest."
"My grandma asked me to."
"That doesn't matter."
Imani's fingers tightened around the hose.
Something about those words made her uncomfortable.
It didn't matter.
Her grandmother's request didn't matter.
The flowers didn't matter.
Apparently, the only thing that mattered was whatever Marjorie wanted.
"I'm sorry," Imani said carefully. "But I need to finish."
Marjorie's jaw tightened.
"You children have become incredibly entitled."
Imani looked down.
"I'm not trying to be rude."
"You already are."
Marjorie reached for the hose.
Imani pulled it toward herself.
"Please don't."
"Give it to me."
"It's my grandmother's."
"I am the HOA president."
Imani looked directly at her.
"That doesn't make it yours."
For a moment, neither moved.
Across the street, Paul was walking his golden retriever.
He slowed.
Mrs. Denton appeared briefly behind her window curtain.
Marjorie noticed.
Her face changed.
She hated having an audience.
"Give me the hose," she repeated.
"No."
Marjorie grabbed it.
Imani held on.
"Mrs. Vale, stop."
Marjorie yanked.
Imani stumbled forward.
The nozzle jerked upward.
Water sprayed across the flowerbed, the walkway, and Marjorie's white pants.
Marjorie stared at the wet fabric.
Her face went red.
"You did that deliberately."
"No!"
"You sprayed me."
"It slipped!"
Marjorie snatched the nozzle from Imani's hands.
Imani took a step backward.
"Please give it back."
Marjorie turned the nozzle.
The stream became hard and narrow.
Imani's eyes widened.
"Mrs. Vale?"
Marjorie squeezed the handle.
The water struck Imani in the chest.
She gasped.
The force knocked her backward.
Her yellow shirt became soaked almost instantly.
"Stop!"
Marjorie didn't.
Water hit Imani's shoulder.
Then her face.
She raised both arms.
"Please!"
Marjorie kept the stream trained on her.
"This is what happens when children refuse to respect authority."
Imani stumbled.
Her shoe slipped.
She fell onto one knee.
The water continued.
Scout, Lorraine's old terrier, began barking frantically from the porch.
Paul stopped walking.
"Marjorie!"
She ignored him.
"Go inside and tell your grandmother she will receive another violation notice."
Imani pushed herself up.
Tears mixed with water on her face.
Then she heard a car.
A black Mercedes turned onto Elmwood Avenue.
The driver slowed.
Dominique Patterson saw the people standing outside.
She saw Paul.
She saw Marjorie.
Then she saw her daughter.
The Mercedes stopped so abruptly that the tires squealed.
Dominique opened the door.
She was still wearing the charcoal suit she had worn earlier that day.
She stepped onto the driveway.
For one second, she simply stared.
Her daughter was soaked.
Her grandmother's hose was in Marjorie Vale's hands.