Skunk looked over his shoulder at the frying pan and went to the front door. He dropped the garbage on the curb and headed back inside when someone called out to him.
“Hey, how you doing?”
“Good. You?” he said, to the neighbour, who must have run outside when he saw Skunk drop the garbage off.
“Getting by. Getting by.”
The neighbour forced the conversation along, the weather, the game, the usual.
“You settled in?”
“Close. Few more boxes.”
“Let me know if you need anything.”
“Sure, thanks, will do,” Skunk said. “That’s awfully nice.”
Inside, his dinner burned.