“I know,” I said. “We have to get the physical override keys from the utility box before they put their own seals on them.”

The truck bounced violently over the old railroad tracks near the waterfront.

The canal district was a maze of low-slung warehouses, gravel lots, and rusted industrial pipelines.

As we rounded the final corner near our battery bank, my stomach dropped.

Two white city SUVs with orange light bars were already parked outside our chain-link fence.

Three men in high-visibility vests stood near the gate, one of them holding a pair of heavy bolt cutters.

“They’re early,” Derek muttered, slamming the truck into park.

We threw our doors open and ran toward the fence.

“Stop!” I yelled. “You don’t have the authority to cut those locks!”

The man with the bolt cutters turned around.

He had a clipboard in his hand and a silver municipal badge pinned to his vest.

“Are you Sarah Mitchell?” he asked, his voice flat.

“Yes,” I said, reaching the gate. “This equipment is operating under a valid microgrid permit.”