It doesn’t take long to sweep out the horse
stall, but with each move I can feel bits of straw working down the
back of my shirt and beneath my sleeves until I’m itchy and raw
from scratching at myself through the thin material. I need a
shower and something to eat, it’s almost dinnertime, and probably a
nap wouldn’t hurt either. I’m not used to this physical labor,
sitting under the tent by the register day in and day out. I wonder
what business was like today, how many plants and vegetables Kent
sold, how much profit he kept and how much he’ll give me at the end
of the day.
If he gives it to me—I have a feeling
that remark I made this morning, about getting out when the
getting’s good, I think that might have shaken him up more than
he’ll care to admit. I know it scared the
