Brittle Nails and a Disputed Greenhouse in Autumn

his voice clipped. “Good brother.”

“He wants the land, Donald,” I said, scrubbing a roasting pan with more force than I knew I had. “He has wanted it since Father died.”

“He wants us safe,” Donald said. “No bankruptcy.”

I rinsed the pan, the steam rising up to warm my face. “We are not going bankrupt over three missing orders.”

“Three continue reading …