“I can mark the area under inspection.”
Jason looked at me as though I had arranged the geometry.
I had done nothing except keep the papers he assumed did not matter.
The inspector lowered the nozzle.
The orange paint hissed across the gray siding in one hard diagonal line.
Jason lunged toward the wall and spread both hands over the fresh mark.
The paint smeared across his palms.
His wife, Ashley, came out of their house carrying a paper coffee cup.
When she saw the line, her hand dropped.
The lid popped loose and coffee splashed onto the driveway.
“Jason,” she said, “you told me the city signed off.”
He did not answer.
The inspector asked him again for the approval.
Jason showed the invoice.
Then a text thread with the contractor.
Then a photo of the garage foundation.
None of it was a permit.
An invoice proved someone had been paid.
A text proved someone had been contacted.
A photograph proved concrete existed.
None of those things proved the city had approved what was built.
The inspector opened a second folder on his tablet.
He said a written correction order would be issued after the department reviewed the construction photos and measurements.
Jason turned to me.
“Can we work something out?”
