Two more cyclists followed within minutes. The first was hit square across the front. He shouted something and veered sharply, spraying water from his jacket as he swore. The second tried to dodge, but still caught a full blast along his left side. Neither stopped. But neither looked happy either.
By 8:45, another passed through—this one slowing briefly at the edge of the yard before turning back. Clarence narrowed his eyes. A pattern was forming. He didn’t expect miracles. But perhaps he had their attention.
By 9:00, the shortcut had gone silent. Clarence stepped outside and walked the path himself, checking the tubing, adjusting the angle on one nozzle. Everything was intact. Everything worked.
For the first time in weeks, he felt a strange kind of calm settle over him. Not revenge. Not triumph. Just relief. Around 11:00, Jordan biked over from down the street. He leaned his bike against the fence and walked up the driveway grinning.