I took one slow breath.
"You have two hours left," I said.
"That's what you want to say right now?"
"No." I looked at her mouth. "It's what I can say right now."
Daphne's lips parted, and I stepped back before I forgot the clipboard existed.
Outside, Tyler called, "Zane, the compost is making a smell."
I closed my eyes for half a second.
Daphne whispered, "The garden is committed to stopping us."
"The garden has terrible timing."
She laughed, and this time the sound didn't shake.
I stepped back. "Come on. Let's finish the shift before I stop caring about municipal boundaries."
Her cheeks went pink.
The color in her cheeks didn't help at all.
The next two hours stretched. Daphne worked beside me on tomato ties first, then helped Birdie sort peppers by the shaded table near the shed. She kept glancing my way when she thought I wasn't watching. I kept catching her because I was always watching.
She laughed with Birdie over a crooked pepper that Tyler said looked like a boot.
She carried water bottles to Gus without being asked.
"Tyler," she said, stopping beside the compost bins, "don't put your glove on your face after touching compost."
Tyler froze with his glove halfway up. "I knew that."
"Your hand was moving toward your face."
"It was a test."
Gus said, "You failed."
At noon, the heat pressed hard over the P-Patch. The sky had gone white-blue above the pines, and the paths smelled like tomato leaves, warm dirt, and hose water. Daphne stood near the west bed with dust on her knees, sweat at her temples, and four hours of work behind her.
I took the clipboard from the shed.
Her eyes followed it.
The whole garden seemed to notice.
Birdie went very busy with her pepper basket. Gus leaned on his rake. Tyler stopped halfway through lifting a compost bucket.
Daphne walked to the workbench and pulled off her gloves. "That's it?"
"That's it." I wrote the date, start time, end time, and four hours in the last open line. "Twenty completed."
She stared at the sheet.
I handed her the pen. "Initial here."
