Both our cars were being hauled up onto flatbeds. I couldn’t believe it.
And there she was. Beverly. Standing at the edge of her perfectly pruned lawn with arms crossed and a smug smile stretched across her powdered face. Like she had just won a prize.
I turned to her, shaking my head in disbelief.
“Wow! You really did it, huh?” I said, trying not to laugh.
“What’s so funny?!” she snapped, but her voice already held a note of uncertainty.
I walked over to the back of my truck, pulled back the cover on the plate, and tapped the tag—an unmistakable, red-rimmed decal: U.S. Government Property – Federal Contract Vehicle.
Her smug smile vanished.
“You might want to Google what that means,” I said, grinning. “You just authorized the towing of a federal vehicle, Beverly.”
Her face drained of color.
“I-I didn’t know,” she stammered, glancing between the tow truck driver and my plate.
I leaned closer and whispered, “Bet you didn’t realize you just interfered with federal property and cost yourself a very real $25,000 penalty… minimum.”
I’ve never seen someone gulp so hard.
The tow truck driver looked panicked too. “Sir, we didn’t know. We were told—”
“Yeah, I’m sure,” I cut him off. “You might want to put that truck back down before you get roped into this too.”
To his credit, he did.
An hour later, after the cars were safely back in our driveway and Beverly had retreated inside without a word, Maddie and I sat at our kitchen table sipping lukewarm coffee.
“You think she learned her lesson?” Maddie asked.
I smirked. “Oh, she’s about to.”
What Beverly didn’t know was that I wasn’t just driving a federal vehicle for work—I was also assigned to oversee a sensitive installation project tied to federal communications infrastructure. That tag wasn’t just for show; any interference could trigger a cascade of federal reports. So I did what I was supposed to do: I filed an incident report with my agency. Not out of spite—just protocol.
But protocol, it turns out, bites hard.
Two weeks later, Beverly had a visit. Three suited men showed up at her door. One of them flashed a badge before she could even fake a smile. They spent nearly an hour with her. Neighbors peeked through blinds. By the end, she was sitting on her porch steps, elbows on her knees, staring at the sidewalk like it had cursed her.
She didn’t wave at me anymore.
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