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 placed them in the box window off the dining room, where they could take the greatest portion of whatever sunlight managed to poke through. She pushed seeds into each nest, taking her time, speaking to them while she worked, imploring life to (improbably, if she was honest with herself) flourish from such humble and long-dormant beginnings. “You’ll be the strongest, tastiest corn that’s ever grown in Georgia!” she cooed as she spritzed the misshapen kernels with water from an old hairspray bottle that she’d rinsed out. “We’ll use you to make masa and tortillas and…oh jeez, sweet cornbread! You’ll be so delicious!” When she was finished, she checked on Ben. “Unbelievable,”
