Phyllis Sproot gazed out on what any properly trained gardener in her right mind would deem a nirvana of gardens right here on earth. Spectacular, wasn’t it? So well ordered and perfectly in synch with the canons of gardening, as amended and augmented by herself. Perfect little rectangular, oval,...
Sproot realized she looked ridiculous, maybe even dangerous. Here she was, having parked her car two blocks away, strolling down Sumac Street at two thirty-two a.m. in the middle of a violent thunderstorm with a gas mask clamped to her face, and wearing work gloves, a wide-brimmed, moisture-repel...