Zane’s hand covered mine.
“Easy,” he said.
The word sank under my skin.
I went still. The garden kept moving around us: bees in the flowers, Birdie clipping peppers, Tyler sifting compost with dramatic suffering, Gus dragging a bucket toward the fence. Zane’s palm stayed over my gloved fingers, steady and careful, while he loosened the knot.
“Loose enough to grow,” he said again, quieter.
I swallowed. “Right.”
He let go first, which was becoming one of his most annoying virtues.
I finished the tie properly this time and sat back on my heels. My knees had dirt on them already, and it wasn’t even midmorning. The black shorts had seemed like a practical choice in my bedroom. Out here, they were mostly a way to confirm I’d never again have clean knees, clean shoes, or clean thoughts.
Zane stood and picked up the roll of twine. “Keep going down this side. I’ll check before you move to the next row.”
“I’m being trusted with string now?”
“You’ve earned intermediate string privileges.”
“That feels important.”
“It is.”
He walked toward the shed, and I watched him for two steps before I remembered I had a pulse, a court order, and an audience.
Birdie’s pepper clippers clicked. “You’re doing better today.”
I bent over the next vine. “Thank you. My standards are low, but they’re improving.”
“Your shoes survived the gate.”
“That was their only goal.”
“They’re practical.”
“They were beige once,” I said. “Now they’re whatever color regret becomes after exposure to soil.”
Birdie laughed and tucked a silver curl under the edge of her straw hat. Today her earrings were red enamel tomatoes, because apparently everyone except me had arrived at the P-Patch with theme awareness. “By Friday, you won’t even look down when dirt gets on you.”
“I’m not sure I’m ready for that level of personal growth.”
Gus came down the path with a five-gallon bucket in one hand. His gray beard swung over his faded shirt, and his boots thudded hard enough to make the boards along the bed creak. “Personal growth is overrated.”
Tyler lifted his head from the compost. “Isn’t this whole place about growth?”
“Plants,” Gus said. “Not feelings.”
I nodded. “Finally, a philosophy I can respect.”
Zane came out of the shed carrying a crate of drip-line parts and looked at all of us. “Is there a reason the beans stopped getting tied?”
“Workplace culture,” I said.
His gaze came to me. “Is that what we’re calling it?”
“Birdie said community is right in the name.”
