shrugged.
“There you go.”
Then he looked over his shoulder.
“I’ve got to get my kids to school. We’ll talk later.”
He closed the door.
In my face.
I stood on his porch.
Through the door, I heard one of his children ask,
“Who was that?”
Clark answered,
“Just the neighbor being weird.”
Just the neighbor.
Nobody important.
I walked home.
Made another pot of coffee.
And sat at my kitchen table.
I considered calling the police.
Technically, I had everything needed.
Video.
Timestamp.
Clear face.
Repeated theft.
But then I pictured what came next.
Police knock on Clark’s door.
He gets a warning.
Maybe a fine.
Then for the next ten years, I live beside a man telling the neighborhood some unstable old widower called the police because of “a little gas.”
Clark would make himself the victim.
People like Clark are very talented at that.
I
didn’t want
