I had placed that paper inside an old address book and forgotten about it. :chatgpt-content-reference{index=”5″}
Until now.
I found it.
**Patricia.**
A phone number was written underneath.
I called.
She answered immediately.
“Carol?”
“Yes. I’m sorry to bother you so early, but—”
Her tone changed.
“What did he do?”
So I told her everything.
The blocked driveway.
The insults.
The slashed tires.
The $462 bill.
The concrete block.
When I finished, there was silence.
Then Patricia said:
“I’ll be there in less than five minutes.”
She hung up. :chatgpt-content-reference{index=”6″}
At 7:02, a silver sedan turned onto our street.
Patricia stepped out carrying a thick folder.
Ryan was sitting comfortably on his porch drinking coffee.
The second he saw his mother, his face went white.
Patricia ignored him.
She inspected the concrete block, looked at my trapped Chevy, and made a phone call.
“The entire block,” she said. “I want it removed within the hour.”
That was when Ryan came running across the street in his bathrobe.
“Mom! What are you doing?”
Then he suddenly changed his story.
