Technically, Lynette wasn’t allowed to call it a “Neighborhood Watch.” That would require board approval, a liaison with the police, three bylaws, and possibly a PowerPoint. But Lynette had never let paperwork get in the way of destiny.
She called it a “Proactive Community Patrol.” Which, in practice, meant she recruited Cheryl, set up a group text, and started patrolling at sunrise with iced coffee and binoculars.
“I just think,” she told Cheryl as they slowly cruised in Lynette’s hybrid SUV, “people are too relaxed. That’s how HOA violations sneak in. And possibly burglars.”
Cheryl, riding shotgun in flamingo-patterned pajama pants, squinted out the window. “What are we even looking for?”
“Suspicious activity,” Lynette said. “Or patio furniture that looks new and possibly unapproved.”
Cheryl was only half-listening. “Hey—remember that old box Sawyer and I found behind the Ferguson house?”
Lynette lowered her iced coffee. “What kind of box?”
“Antique, maybe. Wooden. It looked like it hadn’t been touched in a hundred years, but now Sawyer said it looks like it’s been moved or at least somebody has tried to excavate it.”
Lynette gave a knowing nod. “See? That’s how people get distracted. That’s how the trouble wins.”
Meanwhile, at the Clubhouse, Nathan had had it. The HOA had become, in his words, “an elite cabal of shrub tyrants,” and he was not going to stand for it.
But Muh Insurrection
“I’m running for president!” he announced to a room of exactly four people – two of whom were just there for pickleball.
Kyle, already there setting up for his emergency meeting on “nonconforming garbage can placement,” stood up slowly.
“There’s no election scheduled, Nathan.”
“Well then,” Nathan said, arms crossed, “consider this your J6. Open some doors and show me around.”
Kyle slowly shook his head and smirked.
From the back, someone muttered, “You still owe dues from last quarter.”
Nathan ignored it. “I’ll be forming a transition team effective immediately. Cheryl, you’re press secretary. Blake, you’re head of security.”
Blake blinked. “I don’t even live here full-time.”
“Perfect. You’re unbiased.”
Kyle massaged his temples.
Sawyer Jots Down Her Thoughts on the Suburban Drama
Later that night, Sawyer sat on her back deck with a bowl of white cheddar popcorn and her Kindle Scribe
Riggins dozed by her feet. Russo was licking crumbs off the floor. Rafa was doing perimeter checks like the tiny, red-furred sentry he believed himself to be.
Sawyer scribbled in the margin:
Garden looks worse today – not greener. Overwatered? Disturbed again?
And then:
Box moved deeper? Disturbed? Someone tried to get it?
A sharp knock at the door startled her. She hurried through the house to the front door. She opened it to find Lynette, clipboard in hand and Cheryl behind her with a flashlight.
“We need to talk,” Lynette said. “You and your dogs are joining the patrol.”
Sawyer blinked. “What?”
“Because something’s off,” Lynette said. “Kyle called an emergency HOA meeting, Nathan’s staging an insurrection, and Cheryl thinks she saw Maya digging.”
“I did,” Cheryl said. “Or gardening very aggressively. At night. With gloves.”
Sawyer looked down at Riggins. He gave her a single, unimpressed blink.
“I’ll grab the leash,” she said.
Next time on DOOL: