It started like any other morning — until I saw a man climbing up my neighbor’s balcony.
From my kitchen window, I could see him clearly: leather vest, tattooed arms, boots gripping the side of the building as he scaled the three stories. He looked like trouble — the kind of biker who makes you want to cross the street. My heart jumped, and my first instinct was to grab my phone. My finger hovered over the 911 button. Then I saw what he was holding.
Not a weapon. Not a crowbar. A bowl.