Three lines of barbed wire stopped every lost wanderer from invading the premises of the house. The golden wheat field sharply contrasted with the old house. No green leafy trees, no lively animals, no one was in sight. The blue sky splashed with flaky white clouds was a poor match to the scarcity of color on the ground. The owner, a man who paradoxically fought his loneliness by pulling out a shotgun each time someone walked past the house and waving it through the window, threatened to shoot whoever stepped closer. The villagers had gotten used to him, to the man who built an island of difference at the top of the hill with three lines of barbed wire around it.