19
Adam sat on a stone in the middle of a clearing, soaking up the last rays of the sun. He’d warmed enough to roll up his sleeves a couple of hours ago, and his undershirt was sticky—though not drenched—with sweat. The surrounding woods were dim and cool as dusk approached, and soon the chill would reach him as well. But the moment of comfortable repose felt so good, he didn’t want it to end.
He’d spent much of the afternoon in a surprisingly restful nap, then managed another half bowl of soup and crackers and ventured outside to work on Iris’s garden. When his uncle was still alive, Adam’s grandparents had cultivated row upon row of corn, potatoes, tomatoes, multiple varieties of beans, turnips, beets, a cabbage patch, and on and on. They’d also kept livestock—hogs and chickens, a few
