“There’s a man in my backyard. He broke in. He’s doing something to my fence.”
“Is he damaging property, ma’am?”
“I don’t know. I think so. Just send someone please.”
Officer Martinez arrived twenty minutes later. By then, the biker was gone. But a six-foot section of my fence that had been rotting and falling over was now standing straight with fresh boards.
“Ma’am, it looks like he fixed your fence,” Officer Martinez said.
“I didn’t ask him to fix my fence. I don’t know him. He was trespassing.”
Martinez shrugged. “I’ll file a report. But technically, no damage was done. If anything, he improved your property.”
“That’s not the point. He was in my yard without permission.”
“I understand. We’ll keep an eye out.”
He left. I stared at the repaired fence section feeling confused and violated.
I woke up Sunday morning to the sound of hammering. Ran to the window. There he was. Same biker. Same leather vest. Same tools. Working on another section of fence.
I stormed outside in my bathrobe. “Hey! What do you think you’re doing?”
He looked up at me with sad, tired eyes. “Morning, ma’am. Just fixing this section here. The posts were rotted through. Wouldn’t have survived another storm.”
“I didn’t ask you to fix anything. You’re trespassing.”
He stood up slowly. His knees cracked. He wiped his hands on his jeans.
“I apologize for startling you. I’ll go.”
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