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Whisper Hills Country Club

Midnight

I t stank. Even from all the way across the street, she could smell the harsh chemicals.

A burned rubber odor carried over on the desert breeze.

Draining the last sip of Rombauer from her wine glass, she quietly opened the metal gate from her patio and signaled to the dog.

He got up from the warm pavers while she secured a leash to his leather collar, as HOA rules dictated.

Across the street, four brand-new pickleball courts, converted from a single tennis court, glowed in the moonlight. Thick white stripes contrasted with the freshly painted dark-green and royal-blue surface.

Buttoning her cardigan against the evening chill, she dropped the dog’s leash. Sensing freedom, he sniffed the grass border, then found his way across the painted asphalt. Tucking his back legs and squatting, the dog dropped a pile of feces atop the newly laid surface of the pickleball courts.

“Ah …” Her lips lifted in a cold smile. “Who’s a good boy?”