Life was tough in Hedgeport; that's what everyone believed, so it had to be true. You were born squalling and died in squalor. Babies had dirt under their nails. The gas jockey was considered rich. Despite the poverty, nobody ate anything that didn't come out of a can or box. Nobody took care of their junk, but instead let it rot out in the yard when whatever cheap thing it was broke, they were tired of it, or they just forgot where they laid it. If the thing wasn't busted or rusted to start with, it was by the time the long, long winter was over.
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