Early one spring morning, a young fox on his new path along the line of decks and patios behind a townhouse complex, a complex that similarly went on and on and on, came across a new outdoor grill pushed to the edge of the property line. He stopped and stared at it. “I love your shiny new red coat,” the fox said to the grill, though very aware of his proud and clever self reflected in it. “I like mine well done. I don’t want it walking or talking to itself,” the grill said. “That’s not the kind of thing to say to someone you really don’t know,” said the fox, and never one to linger where he had been exposed or where the advantage wasn’t his, sprinted off. That afternoon the new grill was pulled back onto the patio. “Honey, I love my new gift,” the owner yelled toward the open slider. “That’s not the kind of thing to say to someone you really don’t know,” said the grill. The slider opened wider and slammed shut. On the same path the next morning the fox stopped short. The grill was nowhere in sight. There were black cars, men in black suits, police cars and police, media vans and cameramen and beautiful reporters, helicopters overhead and neighbors in the streets, and everything and everybody focused on the storage shed set back in the woods. When the time was right, he stealthily slinked behind it, stood on his hind legs and looked through the little window, the only window. The red grill was now completely smothered in a black cover. Despite the surrounding din, the fox heard a muffled, “…love my new gift,” not Get me out of here. “I like mine better,” said the fox, and tore away as fast as he could. For many days after, there were so many questions, questions, questions, and to every one the grill answered, “I like mine better.” Finally, a scientist brought in said, “I don’t get it!” “I don’t get it!” the grill said. “I think you’re onto something,” a psychiatrist also sitting there said, then asked, “Are we onto something?” “I think you’re onto something,” the grill said.