But just past noon, the mood shifted. Clarence was sweeping the front steps when a soaked cyclist stormed across the lawn, skipping the walkway entirely. “What the hell is wrong with you? This your idea of a joke?” the cyclist snapped. Mud clung to his sleeves and splattered his pants, dark stains spreading across his jacket.
Clarence set down the broom. “No. I think I’m watering my yard.” “Watering your yard? You set up a trap! I saw the sensors—this was to ambush people like me!” “You mean the people cutting through private property? Ignoring every sign?” “There were no signs!”