Clara found a forged receipt for forty thousand dollars

his hand shaking just as Martha’s once had.

The plastic pots made a soft, rhythmic stacking sound as Gary set them on the cedar workbench.

I dragged the stiff straw broom across the damp gravel floor of the greenhouse, pulling up stray bits of dried moss and peat.

The air inside smelled of wet clay, crushed charcoal, and the green, sharp scent of living continue reading …