Frost said “Good fences make good neighbors.” Or he said his neighbor said it. I can’t recall the poem, but I do know this: I don’t want neighbors at all. When the pump stopped working and the water ran short I could smell the riot coming. My wife didn’t want to leave Fematown, but I’d gotten us out of Camp Cypress three days before the massacre, so she had to trust me. We need to start over clean. So I’m makin’ distance my good fence. The flu that broke us isn’t airborne, thank god, but the fear and anger it left us with sure as hell is.