Brittle Nails and a Disputed Greenhouse in Autumn

“Thank you, Becky,” I said, taking the small paper bag.

She leaned over the counter, lowering her voice. “My dad says the greenhouse might be selling out soon anyway.”

The paper bag felt surprisingly heavy in my hand as I walked out into the bright autumn sun.

I wondered who had been talking to her father, and how deep Robert’s whispers had already traveled continue reading …