After dinner, Breanne and Nick hurried to the tool shed to retrieve their painting.
“This building doesn’t look watertight,” Breanne commented, regarding the corrugated roof and the walls that didn’t extend all the way up to it.
“It’s not,” Nick replied. “Papa doesn’t even keep tools in this toolshed. It’s mostly for seeds and such.
“Then why…”
“I have no idea,” he replied. “Perhaps they didn’t understand. Do you see the crate?”
It’s dark in here,” she said, tiptoeing in, hoping not to step on any slugs.
“Here it is!” he called. “Merde. The box is damp.”
“Uh oh.”
“Help me with this end,” he urged.
Breanne picked her way across the shed, her boots splashing on the wet floor. Making an awkward grab, she hefted up one end of the crate and grieved to feel the moisture of the wood. All
