The next morning a note slid through my letterbox: You’re colder than your electricity, mate.

I stood there with toast in one hand, the note in the other, and something ugly stirred—anger first, then defensiveness, and underneath, a small, annoying pinch of guilt.

We used to be friendly, me and Ron. Summers with shared barbecue tools, the occasional mower swap. Then Maureen died and his world folded itself into that dim garage. I’d tried—soup, pies, a knock on the door—but he never let me in, not really.

That night his place stayed dark. No glow through the frosted window, no tinny radio. A bad silence.

I went over. Knocked. Called his name. Nothing.

Through the little glass I caught a shape on the floor.

Fence