“Maybe he was busy thinking.” Dad knelt back down in the strawberry patch. “Man’s allowed to think.”
That’s my father. He’d find something kind to say about a rattlesnake.
So when the letter came that Tuesday, I knew exactly who’d sent the complaint.
“It’s Brent,” I said, slamming the letter down on the table. “It has to be. Nobody else can even see the garden. The road’s on the other side of the house. It’s him. He’s been staring at that corn all summer like it insulted his mother.”
Dad didn’t say anything.
“He can’t do this,” I said. “He can’t just move in here and start telling you what to do with your own land. Your family’s been on this land for a hundred years, Dad. He’s been here five months.”
“County says he can.”
“The county’s wrong.”
