“Not you too.”
I give the fire another prod before looking up. Gregory is exactly where I expect him to be: peering over the top of the fence that divides his property from my mother’s. Last year, when his grousing about my mother’s late night activities got to be unbearable, I had an eight-foot-tall fence installed around her backyard. That didn’t stop him for long—now he just uses a stepladder.
“Mind your own business, Gregory,” I say, returning my attention to the flames.