He looked out the window. On this side of the house the weeds grew thickest, and here his grandfather had put discarded items—an old rusted truck with no tires, a sink that held enough water for a birdbath, wooden crates, broken chairs, an old iron bed. Closer to the house was a small garden, and his grandfather had told Sammy they would have to guard the tomato plants later in the year because the turtles in this part of the country loved tomatoes. Every summer, his grandfather said, he lost half his tomatoes to turtles. “I can guard the tomatoes for you,” Sammy had said. “Well, I’d appreciate it.” Now Sammy thought about walking down the row of tomatoes, spotting a turtle who was helping himself. “Aha, got you!” He would carry the turtle away, take him to where there was something to eat, but not tomatoes. Suddenly Sammy remembered the crane. He turned and started into the kitchen. He had not bothered to put on his pajamas the night before and so was now already dressed for the day.
