Coffee Turns into a Code Red
That Tuesday morning, the new neighbor sat in his driveway, sipping coffee on his Harley as the sky turned from pewter to gold.
He didn’t start it. Didn’t rev it. Just… sat there. Watching the light.
Then came the sirens — slicing the morning apart.
Three cruisers. Six officers. Commands shouted. Hands raised. Coffee set down. A face that said, I know this drill — and I wish I didn’t.
“We got a call about a suspicious man casing houses,” one officer said.
“I live here,” the man answered calmly. “This is my driveway. That’s my porch.”
Gladys burst from her door, pointing like she’d been waiting for proof.
“That’s him! He’s been sitting there for twenty minutes. Planning something.”
