I was on my porch sipping lukewarm coffee when the patrol car rolled up across the street. It parked right in front of Miss Lillian’s place—you know, the one with the peeling shutters and “NO SOLICITING” sign that’s older than me.
I figured it was about the noise complaint from last weekend, or maybe her grandson Damien finally got busted for blasting that bass-heavy nonsense at 3 a.m. But then the officer stepped out—calm, steady, the kind who didn’t need to raise his voice to get things done.
