The morning air in the quiet suburban neighborhood of Oak Creek was crisp and inviting. Mark, a twenty-eight-year-old software developer who had just closed on his first home two months prior, stepped out onto his front porch. He was dressed comfortably in a gray t-shirt, dark athletic shorts, and a pair of slide sandals over black socks.
In his hand was a steaming mug of black coffee. He settled into the wooden rocking chair he had meticulously assembled the night before, letting out a long, satisfied sigh. The neighborhood was peaceful. Birds were chirping, sprinklers were ticking in the distance, and the morning sun cast a warm golden glow over his manicured lawn.
It was the perfect start to a Saturday. Or, at least, it was supposed to be.
The peace was shattered by the rapid, aggressive slapping of sneakers against the concrete sidewalk. Mark opened his eyes to see a woman in her early fifties marching purposefully toward his property line. She wore a loud, floral-patterned tracksuit, oversized designer sunglasses, and held her smartphone up like a weapon, the camera lens pointed directly at him.