Trent picked up a second orange cone and put it three feet from the first, blocking off my garage entrance.

“You park on the street now, old man,” Trent said, looking past the officer with a wide, loud grin.

“Where’s the closest legal street parking in this residential zone?” I asked Officer Miller.

“Public street parking starts two blocks east on Elm Street, behind the park shelter,” Miller said.

Harry sat in the leather driver’s seat of his custom gas-powered golf cart at the curb, his elbow propped on the steering wheel.

“Keep our cul-de-sac clear for the utility trucks, Kessler,” Harry yelled across the lawn.