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.
The moment her tires hit the mulch line, the sensor blinked. A split second later, the sprinklers hissed to life. Cold water arced through the air, catching her square in the chest. She let out a sharp gasp and pedaled faster, twisting her body away from the spray. Her tires skidded slightly—but she stayed up.
She didn’t fall. She didn’t crash. She just kept going, now drenched and sputtering, glancing back over her shoulder like she’d been attacked by a ghost. Clarence, standing behind the curtains, sipped his tea. Taffy let out a small wag of approval.