James Randall lives in what has been referred to by one of his nice neighbors, a spirited woman he only first met during the height of the pandemic, walking past her house as she came home one day between long shifts as a nurse in the intesive care unit at the local hospital, as "the Brooklyn of the north," Bantam, CT. A lot of New Yorkers are around, actually, so it's probably fitting. The main road in town goes through his back yard, past a brief interlude of forest that muffles the sound in the summertime. He has an absolutely charming daughter-and-wife combo, and a house and a job, and by most accounts appears to be at the very least not an immediate threat to the corporate, "keeping up with the Joneses" sort of structure of our rapidly changing republic.