We had never spoken before.
Still, I had seen him often enough.
He was tall, impeccably dressed, and carried himself like someone who belonged in a sleek high-rise office overlooking a city skyline—not on a quiet suburban street like this.
When he looked at me, he wore a smirk that suggested the entire situation amused him.
My body instantly tensed.
“You… you wrecked my fence!” I shouted, my voice trembling with disbelief and anger.
He tilted his head slightly and widened his grin.
“It’s a small accident, Mr. Hawthorne,” he said, his tone dripping with mockery. “Don’t get all bent out of shape. You’re old… maybe you’re trying to shake a few bucks out of me?”
“I’m not asking for a handout!” I replied. “You hit it. Just fix it.”
He laughed.
It was short and cruel.
“Fence?! Who said it was me? Maybe it just fell over on its own. Honestly, old man, you worry too much.”
“I saw you hit it!”
My fists clenched tightly at my sides, and my chest felt so tight I struggled to breathe.
“Sure, sure,” he said dismissively, waving a hand as though brushing away an insect. He stepped closer and lowered his voice.
“And for the record… I’m not paying a single cent for that old, rotten fence of yours.”
With that, he slid back into the driver’s seat of his Rolls-Royce.
He revved the engine loudly—almost as if he wanted to rub salt into the wound—and sped away.
I remained standing there for what felt like an hour.
My legs ached, but I could not force them to move.
All I could hear were his words repeating in my mind.
“Old man… trying to shake a few bucks out of me…”
