I live in a small Tudor on a hill, across from a middle school, just west of a seminary, and a mile from a university. I share a driveway with Gwen, who runs an underground raw-milk distribution center out of her garage. By day Gwen and I discuss tearing down the fence between our yards and sharing our chickens; by night I research tiny, off-the-grid cabins with no humans for miles. I watch neighbors stroll by outside my window and hope they do not come to my door. I hate the pancake breakfast in the park on the last Saturday in August. I do not want to throw a potluck, and please don’t invite me to yours. This doesn’t mean I don’t care about people. I do. I love even the people I dislike. I just prefer them at a distance. I understand that loneliness will shorten my life span. At least I don’t smoke.