This old biker kept breaking into my yard to fix my fence and I called the cops on him seven times before winter came.
Every single time, Officer Martinez would show up, talk to the man, and leave without arresting him. Every single time, I’d wake up the next morning to find another section of my rotting fence mysteriously repaired.
My name is Rebecca Torres. I’m a thirty-four-year-old single mother of two. I bought this rundown house three years ago because it was all I could afford after my divorce.
The previous owners had let it fall apart. Roof leaked. Pipes burst every winter. And the fence—God, that fence—looked like it had survived a war and lost.
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