A Greenhouse in Late September and the Harvest That Saved My Husband

was covered in old county plat maps and property tax records by half past one.

She had brewed a pot of tea, but neither of us had touched our cups, the steam rising and disappearing into the warm air.

She pointed a blue ink pen at a yellowed map showing our three acres of greenhouses, the red boundary lines drawn with steady hand-ruled ink.

“The highway continue reading …