Good Fences make good neighbors; the people to the east of us, the Fences—Dave and Sheila, and their kids, Marcus and Karin—are simply terrific neighbors, always asking us if they can help out with anything, inviting us over for Sunday dinner, just generally being great and neighborly. Then there are the ones on the west side of our house, Richard and Lorraine Fence, and their sullen teenage son, Bret. I don’t know what’s wrong with those people. Those bad Fences never say hello, they’re always frowning, weird smells come from their house. I just realized how strange it is that both of our neighbors have the last name Fence. I know we live in Fenceton, and a lot of people here are descendants of Jonathon Fence, who founded the town in 1824, but still.
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