I stepped onto my porch with a mug of coffee still steaming in my hand, expecting maybe a lost delivery driver or one of the neighborhood kids chasing a runaway basketball.
Instead, I found Karen.
Not a Karen. THE Karen.
She was hunched over the driver’s door of my truck like a burglar who’d watched exactly one heist movie and decided she was ready for the big leagues. In her hand was a shiny brass key, the kind you’d see hanging on a hardware-store rack labeled UNIVERSAL MASTER KEY in overly confident packaging. She jammed it into my lock, twisted hard, then yanked it out like the door had personally insulted her.
She tried again.
And again.
The lock did what any lock should do when confronted by nonsense: it refused.
Karen spun toward me, eyes wide with theatrical outrage, as if I had sabotaged the laws of physics to inconvenience her before breakfast.
