was open.
I hadn’t even turned on the cab light.
“They planted it too wet,” I told her.
She climbed onto the running board.
“Can it be fixed?”
“Some of it.”
“Then why aren’t you helping?”
I looked away.
“He didn’t ask.”
She put her arm around my shoulders.
We sat quietly beneath the yard light.
Finally, she whispered, “Your father would hate seeing you two like this.”
“He’s the one who caused it.”
“I know,” she said. “But I think he’d hate it anyway.”
By the middle of June,
