Brittle Nails and a Disputed Greenhouse in Autumn

dry sand.

My thumb throbbed from where the nail had split further down the side during the night.

Donald was already at the table, his wool tie hanging loose around his neck as he polished his spectacles with the tip of it.

“You want some tea, Martha?” he asked, his voice clipped and dry.

“Well now, tea sounds fine, but I need a spoonful of that clover continue reading …