As in so many towns bound to an axis, the kids play a game: step across the railroad and evaporate your left leg. Reach your arm through the fence holes behind Roche Brothers Supermarket and it comes back a map of Central America.
Once the shops grew jagged like folk tales from the cement. In the earliest years it had been so many crabapple trees in parallel lines, a grid that could not close its symmetrical fist.
Now the mayor lives in Weston and the shops have been bought by old men who stare to the horizon at dinnertime, imagining there are towns nearby they do not own. They smile as their wives bring crabapple pie, cooling from the oven.