Clarence pressed. “Can’t you at least put up a better barrier? Cones? Netting? Something to stop them?” The man gave a half-hearted shrug. “Off the clock, sir. We’re just cleaning up what’s here. You could try city hall, maybe, but they’ll say the same thing—next quarter if you’re lucky.”
The answer didn’t sit right. Clarence looked down the path toward his house, imagining another fresh tire track slicing through his lilies. “It’s not just some inconvenience,” he muttered. “It’s my home.” But the man had already turned away, throwing more tape into the back of a pickup.