Fiorella lives in a wooded rural subdivision of about ninety homes averaging at least five acres apiece. There is only one road into the area and no road out. Neighbors keep tabs on each other and are always helpful. It is the safest, sweetest, most secure place Fio has ever lived.
It is also the world epicenter of paranoia. At a recent neighborhood association meeting, a resident reported he'd had something stolen. Immediately, plans erupted like Vesuvius to counter this obvious crime wave--decals for neighborhood cars, surveillance cameras, and security lights.
Fiorella considered pointing out that relatives, maids, yardmen, and tradespeople wouldn't be sporting decals and that decals can't be seen at night, but restrained herself. She didn't even ask who'd be responsible for checking cars for identification, or what would be done if the vehicle were decal-less.
But at least decals wouldn't cost much compared to surveillance cameras or security lights--although there is so little traffic through the subdivision that Fio would pity anyone assigned to looking at a tape. And the security lights would only benefit the high crime areas--like the end of a street where a couple of cars have been spotted parked late at night.
All in all, Fio is a little jealous. Here she'd thought SHE was the most interesting thing going on in her neighborhood.