“Is this yours?” he demanded, his voice sharp enough to cut through the quiet street.
“Yeah,” I said, slowing my steps slightly. “I’ll be out of here in a second.”
“That’s not the point,” he snapped, gesturing toward his yard. “Look at what you’re doing.”
I followed his hand and saw it—my truck’s shadow stretching across the edge of his property, darkening a neat row of bright, carefully maintained roses.
“They’re prize-winning,” he added, like that explained everything. “They require precise sunlight. You can’t just park wherever you feel like it.”
I blinked, unsure if I had heard him right.
“It’s a shadow,” I said. “I’ll move in a minute.”
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