Page 95 of Good Directions

Fuck.

Seriously, I need to breathe. Panicking is the last thing I need to do. Except, this is my worst nightmare. Everything I have been fighting against all summer. When I woke up that morning in April and saw frost on the ground, all I could think about was losing trees. Specifically these trees. And now, they’ve disappeared.

My stomach roils, acid churning on itself, the emptiness turning to queasiness the longer I look. I don’t even want to think about how many peaches that would be in a single season on those trees. Over all the seasons.

FUUUUUUCK…

I pull out my phone, ready to send an ARMADILLO text. That would make two distress texts in less than five months. Before this, I can’t remember the last time I sent one. Hell, I can’t remember the last time any of us sent one. Not seriously anyway. The one Hux sent of Gus’s smudged hand with what we later discovered to be Margeaux’s phone number doesn’t count.

Calvin taps me on the arm as I type, and I look over at him, realizing how calm he is. That the barren and empty grove isn’t a surprise to him.

“Calvin, how long has this been like this?” I ask, heart racing.

“Yennyay.”

What? I pause, running that back through my mind, not wanting to ask him to repeat himself.

“Yesterday?”

He nods, sighing. Okay, so this is new. It’s not like I missed something a week ago. I can work with that.

“What happened? Were you here?”

He reels back, looking at me like I’ve lost my mind. Throwing his arms out wide, he goes off, ranting and gesturing, one jumbled word after the next flying right over my head.

Languages have never been my strength, and at least with our workers who speak Spanish or some other foreign language, I have translation apps to help make up for my shortcomings. With Calvin, there isn’t an app for this. I do my best to follow along, but I got nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Other than panic. More and more panic as I realize that my trees are gone. Probably off somewhere dying.

I fought all summer to save these trees, to survive the worst peach season in over seventy years, only to have them stolen.

“Yennyay, so shjut asterisked Sawyer, and asher can…” he continues.

That’s when the wrecking ball hits me. Everything goes dark and fuzzy for a second, then comes back into focus, Calvin still muttering on, hand motions and all. But I caught that one word perfectly clear.

Sawyer.

“Wait, Calvin,” I stop him. “You said Sawyer. As in, my Sawyer?”

The possessiveness feels weird, especially since I’m asking this man to confirm or deny potential betrayal here. I also don’t know that he would know that he’s about to do such a thing.

Calvin nods, making the digging motion again. “Sawyer, ashercoo, an asher can.”

Sawyer asked them to dig up the trees…

Something in the back of my brain goes click. It’s a soft, shifting sound. Like something sliding into place. A latch snicking into place. Not a full-on snap or anything loud. A small, simple, little click.

But that’s all it takes.

Sawyer asked them to dig up the trees.

My trees.

That’s why she was covered in dirt. Because she’d spent the afternoon tearing up the sapling grove. After everything we’ve been through this summer. All the tests, questions, research—and I’m just talking in the lab, not even including our personal agreement—this is what she does. Forget whether or not we can plant again to replace the trees we did lose, now we have all the saplings missing too.

You have to be fucking kidding me.

“Calvin, I have to go,” I grind out, turning on my heel.