Father is still asleep. If he rises to find us gone, will he think something ill? The thought comes to me unbidden: It does not matter what Father thinks. Weed does not say where he leads me, but except for the early hour, the walk is our familiar one. We arrive at a not-too-distant meadow and lower ourselves onto the dew-soaked grass. Indifferent to the wet, Weed stretches out on his back, his whole form pressed against the earth. I take my place next to him. Goose bumps rise on my flesh from the cold earth, and from my anticipation, too. What horrifying truth does he intend to show me? Ought I to be afraid? Perhaps, but my sense of excitement far outweighs any fear. Finally Weed speaks. “As we walked here, did you see the grass?” he says. “The trees? The dandelions? The fields of oilseed?” “I did.” “Can you hear them?” I think he means the soft, oceanic rushing, the wind in the grass, the fluttering of leaves. “Yes,” I reply. “When there is a breeze, I hear them.”
