Though not yet eight o’clock, the sun had begun to warm the fields, and the air smelled of green leaves and rich earth. Barr hadn’t arrived yet, no doubt snagged by station business. Pulling on a pair of gloves, I made my leisurely way to the tool shed. It was unlocked as always, and the garden cart sat right where I’d left it the night before. I tugged it outside and down the path to the popcorn field. The thick rubber wheels bounced over rocks, making the removable slatted sides rattle in their moorings. The tower of compost rose in my peripheral vision to my left. I found myself veering toward it, cart still in tow. I stopped outside the police tape, one end of which now flapped lazily in the breeze. Unlike where I’d grown up in northern Colorado, August mornings and evenings in the Pacific Northwest were almost always crisp. Today was no exception, and the moist heat of decay wisped up from the pile. I could tell someone had given the whole thing a good toss since we’d discovered Darla.
