“For the weeds, perhaps.”
She shrugged. “They had a good run.”
The garden had once been loved. The beds had been planned with care, though years of partial attention had left them uneven. Perennials pushed through the soil, stubbornly loyal, while the vegetable beds near the old stone path were overgrown with weeds.
“What are we growing?” Billie asked, dropping to her knees before I could suggest a less ruinous position for her dress.
“Useful things.”
She groaned. “Boring.”
“Useful things can be exciting.”
“Name one.”
“Mint.”
She looked unimpressed.
“Strawberries.”
That sparked her interest.
“Pumpkins.”
Now I had her.
“For Halloween?”
“For autumn, yes.”
“Can we grow bones?”
“No.”
“What about fake bones?”
“If you wish to plant decorations, I won’t stop you, but they won’t sprout.”
Billie sighed, then plunged her shovel into the dirt. Within ten minutes, she had found three worms, one beetle, two pebbles she deemed her new pets, and a rusted bottle cap from a soda brand that no longer existed.
Every discovery elicited a gasp. Every gasp contained the full wonder of a person meeting the world for the first time.
I understood that feeling better than I liked to admit.
For many decades after I was turned, I cataloged everything. New cities. New customs. New machines. New languages in crowded streets. New ways humans hurt each other. New ways they healed. When life stretched unnaturally long, one either stopped caring or learned to keep discovering things with reverence.
Billie had the discovery instinct without the caution that was usually attached to it.
That was both beautiful and dangerous.
She leaned too far over the garden wall to inspect a centipede, and I caught the back of her dress before she tipped directly into the bed.
“Careful.”
“I was being careful.”
“You were practically airborne,” I corrected.
