They lived on the border between East Southport and Southport Village, tucked back in the quiet, shaded streets a few blocks from the train station. There was no proper downtown for East Southport, no walkable Main Street, unless you counted the two delis and grody roadhouse connected to the train station by a cracked and overgrown strip of concrete. Not like Southport Village’s Main Street, with its cute candle shops and movie theater and hand-made jewelry boutiques, and best of all, an actual port, the harbor hanging at the end of Main Street like a big, beautiful oil painting. Maybe it was inconsequential – like the dog food commercial – but it had to be bad luck living in a town whose name was a lie. There was no port in East Southport. And it wasn’t even east of Southport. It was west.