“The permit was revoked an hour ago,” the officer said, tapping his clipboard. “Emergency order. We’re here to isolate the system.”

“There are families relying on this power right now,” Derek said, his voice rising. “You shut this down, and forty-two homes go dark.”

“That’s a matter for the utility company,” the officer said.

He turned back to the gate, positioning the jaws of the bolt cutters over our heavy brass padlock.

“Wait,” I said, my mind racing.

If I could get inside the control shed, I could trigger the local islanding protocol manually.

It would disconnect our batteries from the city’s telemetry feed, keeping the local power flowing to the houses even if the main line was cut.

But the gate was locked, and the officer was about to snap our padlock.

Just then, a loud, scraping sound echoed from the far end of the gravel road.

A rusty blue pickup truck pulled up, stopping inches from the city SUVs.

The door opened, and a man in work clothes climbed out.

It was Miguel, one of the residents from the canal neighborhood.