Brittle Nails and a Disputed Greenhouse in Autumn

the knuckle, but I kept my face still.

Donald put his glasses back on and stared at my hands.

“You look pale, Martha. Take a rest.”

“I have forty more of these cyclamens to pot before the afternoon delivery,” I said, reaching for the trowel again, though my arm felt as heavy as wet sand.

Donald stepped closer and took the tool from my fingers.

“Go sit in continue reading …