Two weeks ago, our neighbor, Gary, backed his truck out of his driveway without checking behind him and rolled straight over Jake’s bike, which had been parked at the edge of our yard, clearly visible, for at least twenty minutes beforehand.
The frame was bent beyond repair. Jake stood there watching it happen, too stunned to even say anything.
I walked over immediately, calm at first, expecting Gary to at least offer to cover the cost of a replacement. Instead, he shrugged and said it was « parked too close to the road » and technically not his fault for not looking harder.
I argued with him for a good ten minutes, getting nowhere.
I decided I’d give it a few days, then handle it more formally, maybe through his insurance, maybe through small claims if I had to.
Before I got the chance, Jake came to me on Saturday morning with a plan of his own, something he’d apparently been thinking through carefully all week.
« Dad, » he said, « I don’t need your help with this one. I’ve got it handled. »
I should have asked more questions right then. Instead, I just watched him walk next door.
