“Like this,” he says quietly.
I nod. I think. I’m not entirely sure my brain is functioning at full capacity. He steps back again. The air feels different without him that close. I clear my throat.
“So,” I say, forcing myself to focus, “if I keep doing this, eventually the ground will stop fighting me?”
“It’s not fighting you.”
I glance at him.
“It feels like it is.”
“It’s just waiting for you to do it right.”
His words dig into me like the shovel I can’t quite manage. I look back down at the soil., then at the small section we’ve loosened. My eyes take in the size of the yard. This is a lot and very overwhelming. I think this is going to be a tiny garden. Maybe just for attracting a few butterflies or fairies. I need some fairies for good luck.
While it's a lot, I do get the sense it's not impossible. Not like it felt two days ago. I lean on the shovel and look at him.
“So what’s next, teacher?”
His gaze holds mine.
“Now we figure out what you’re planting.”
He holds my gaze for another second. Then he nods once and turns toward his truck.
“Where are you going?”
“Getting something.”
That is not a helpful answer. I watch him walk away, the sun catching on his shoulders, the easy confidence in his stride doing absolutely nothing to help my concentration. I plant the shovel into the ground and lean on it, catching my breath. Okay. This is fine. This is manageable. This is —
Troy drops the tailgate of his truck. There’s a heavy metallic shift, followed by the unmistakable sound of something being dragged forward. I straighten, trying to get a glimpse.
“What are you doing?”
No answer. A second later, he lowers something to the ground. I squint. It looks like a piece of equipment. Possibly, a dangerous one. Awhy does that existkind of one. I point at it.
“What is that?”
“Tiller.”
That does not help.
“And that means…?”
He doesn’t answer. Just reaches for the cord and gives it a sharp pull. The machine roars to life.
I jump. Like, actually jump.
“Okay! It’s loud! Good to know!”
He doesn’t even flinch. He walks it forward, guiding it into the patch of ground I’ve been personally battling like a stubborn idiot for the last few minutes that seem like three hours. And then — the earth gives. The machine churns through the soil, breaking it apart like it’s been waiting for permission. Dirt flips over, loosens and softens in mere seconds.
I stare at him, then look down at the shovel in my hands.
“You have got to be kidding me.”
He glances over his shoulder.
