He marched down to the construction site the next morning. A few workers were gathering cones and rolling up caution tape. Clarence approached one in a yellow vest and tried to keep his voice calm. “Is there a plan to finish the bike lane? The detour’s pushing people through my yard.”
The worker looked up, squinting at him in the cold sunlight. “I mean, not that I know of. We were just told to secure the site. Funding’s on pause.” He glanced toward the road. “Yeah, people’ll find other ways around. Sucks, but there’s nothing we can do till they approve more money.”
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.