This old biker kept breaking into my yard to fix my fence and I called the cops on him seven times before winter came. Every single time, Officer Martinez would show up, talk to the man, and leave without arresting him. Every single time, I’d wake up the next morning to find another section of my rotting fence mysteriously repaired. I thought I was losing my mind. My name is Rebecca Torres. I’m a thirty-four-year-old single mother of two. I bought this rundown house three years ago because it was all I could afford after my divorce. The previous owners had let it fall apart. Roof leaked. Pipes burst every winter. And the fence—God, that fence—looked like it had survived a war and lost. I didn’t have money to fix any of it. Every paycheck went to keeping the lights on and food in my kids’ mouths. The fence was the least of my problems. It was ugly and broken, but it wasn’t going to kill us. Then he started showing up. I first noticed him in March. A man in his sixties, maybe seventies. Long gray beard. Leather vest with patches. Bandana on his head. He rode an old Harley that rumbled so loud it shook my windows. He’d park across the street and just stare at my house. At first I thought he was casing the place. Planning a robbery. I’d heard stories about biker gangs. Seen the news. I kept my doors locked and my phone ready. Then one Saturday morning, I looked out my kitchen window and saw him in my backyard. On his knees. With tools spread around him. Working on my fence. I grabbed my phone and called 911. “911, what’s your emergency?” “There’s a man in my backyard. He broke in. He’s doing something to my fence.” “Is he damaging property, ma’am?” I looked closer. He wasn’t tearing the fence down. He was… replacing a board? “I don’t know. I think so. Just send someone please.” Officer Martinez arrived twenty minutes later. By then, the biker was gone. But a six-foot section of my fence that had been rotting and falling over was now standing straight with fresh boards. “Ma’am, it looks like he fixed your fence,” Officer Martinez said. “I didn’t ask him to fix my fence. I don’t know him. He was trespassing.” Martinez shrugged. “I’ll file a report. But technically, no damage was done. If anything, he improved your property.” “That’s not the point. He was in my yard without permission.” “I understand. We’ll keep an eye out.” He left. I stared at the repaired fence section feeling confused and violated. Two weeks later, it happened again. I woke up Sunday morning to the sound of hammering. Ran to the window. There he was. Same biker. Same leather vest. Same tools. Working on another section of fence. I stormed outside in my bathrobe. “Hey! What do you think you’re doing?” He looked up at me with sad, tired eyes that looked full of horror. That’s when I recognized his face and ran inside quickly. He was actually my……….