Barb was feeling solid that day. Clem had his good tie and hat on (the one that covered his high and tight, Macklemore-y, I was Fascist when Fascist wasn’t cool haircut), and the world was alive with possibility. The homestead was thriving. The fence posts were fenceposting. Barb threw caution to the wind and climbed aboard the fence and didn’t even care if the wire cut into the flesh of her palm. Her dress was fierce, her hair was amazing (think early Peanuts Lucy). What’s a little blood in the scheme of things?