The morning sun was usually Arthur’s favorite part of the day, but today it only served to illuminate a neighborhood-wide mystery that had the entire cul-de-sac on edge.
Arthur stood at the edge of his driveway, a half-empty mug of coffee cooling in his hand, staring at the ancient oak tree in his front yard. Wrapped tightly around its trunk, about four feet off the ground, was a wide, shimmering band of sheet metal. He looked left. He looked right. Every single tree lining Elm Street wore the exact same metallic belt.
“Arthur! You seeing this?”
Marge, his next-door neighbor, was marching across the grass, her bathrobe billowing behind her like a cape of righteous indignation. “I woke up, looked out the window, and thought aliens had tagged the neighborhood. Who does this?”
“I don’t know,” Arthur said, squinting down the road. “But look. There’s a ladder and a toolkit sitting on Mr. Henderson’s porch.”
Mr. Henderson was the neighborhood enigma. He lived at the end of the block, kept his lawn immaculately manicured, spoke in grunts, and spent an unusual amount of time tinkering in his garage.
Determined to get answers, Arthur and Marge marched down the sidewalk, their anger building with every metal-clad tree they passed. By the time they reached Henderson’s porch, Marge was practically vibrating with annoyance. She pounded on the front door.
The door swung open, and Mr. Henderson stood there, wearing a grease-stained apron and holding a pair of heavy-duty tin snips. He looked at them, then sighed deeply, as if expecting the confrontation.
“Henderson,” Marge demanded, pointing a finger back toward the street. “Care to explain why you’ve turned our neighborhood into a hardware store catalog? Why is there metal wrapped around every tree on the entire street?”
Mr. Henderson crossed his arms. He looked at Marge, then at Arthur, his expression an impenetrable wall of stoic exhaustion.
“Just don’t take it down,” Henderson said…….
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