He woke early the next morning, just after sunrise. The air had that brittle kind of chill that seeps into your collar. He brewed his tea and carried the mug outside, watching from the porch with Taffy curled at his feet. The sensor light blinked softly in the distance.
At 8:17 a.m., the first cyclist arrived. A woman in a blue jacket and fingerless gloves coasted down the blocked path, glanced once at the detour sign, and then steered straight through Clarence’s yard without hesitation. She didn’t even slow down.