This region is made up of people from somewhere else, not including our indigenous neighbours. We arrive here for different reasons, but we stay and thrive because of the hospitality shown to us by those who came before.
The pigs don’t know anyone like they know Andrew Tilt. He’s the man who feeds them and chases them back into their enclosure when they wander past the wood door to the shed in the middle of the field they call home.
Like the ventricles of the human brain, the neighbourhood of Forest Heights is a labyrinth of intertwined strips of pavement, lined on both sides with houses built before the plague of modern residential architecture turned homes into clones made of brick, drywall and shingles.