The boy made fists tight as frozen potatoes, clenching and unclenching his hands as his father drilled the words into him. “Ok, you’ve made it this far, Son. You remember that when things get hairy in there. I don’t have to tell you how many folks never even make it to Labor, do I? But your old m...
If they were going to make it work, she couldn’t afford to waste any of the seeds they’d almost traded their lives for. She took some old newspapers—brittle as onion skins—and shredded them, then made a series of damp nests in some cookie tins she’d found in the pantry. She labeled each tin and p...