long time.
Daniel hadn’t told me everything.
Not even close.
By noon, I had made several calls, printed photographs, and collected a few things from our garden shed.
Later that afternoon, I stood on Monica’s front lawn arranging the final part of my plan.
Her door opened.
The scream that came out of her was so loud that neighbors started stepping outside.
“What the hell are you doing?”
In the center of her lawn stood a large handmade sign.
MONICA’S HARVEST.
Below it, in huge letters, I had written:
THIS
