“Morning,” he said. “First time?”
The father nodded. He looked embarrassed. He looked like he hadn’t slept in a week.
“Somebody at the gas station told us,” the father said. “Said there was a place up here. Where you could… where people could…”
“There is,” Brent said. “Come on up.”
He led them up the driveway. He handed them a bucket from the stack by the shed.
The little boy looked up at Brent.
“Mister,” he said. “Whose garden is this?”
Brent thought about it.
He looked out over the rows. At June, at the squash. At Tyler, at the tomatoes. At Ashley’s little girl, with strawberry juice all over her face. At my father, down at the end of the bean rows, slowly straightening up to see who’d come.
“It’s Mr. Lindqvist’s garden,” Brent said. “And his wife’s. She started it a long time ago.”
