Brittle Nails and a Disputed Greenhouse in Autumn

” he said.

I turned toward the stove, pretending to busy myself with the kettle. “There is nothing to discuss about our land.”

“He has a buyer lined up,” Donald said, his voice barely louder than the hum of the refrigerator. “A serious one.”

The local pharmacy on Main Street smelled of peppermint and rubbing alcohol when I walked in at two that afternoon.continue reading …