As Maynard considered what to do, he tried to square the idea of this bigoted radical with the quiet tenant in his house. Was this person really hateful? The one buying baby chickens, naming them after Beatles’ songs, petting them day and night, chasing them across backyards in the neighborhood as they learned to jump and flap, apologizing to everyone for the inconvenience, befriending the retirees down the block and the black woman next door?
