“Did you get the seeds planted?” he asks in a subdued voice as he pinches the skin on my thigh. “The soil’s shit on this property, and I waited too late. None of them are going to grow.” The pain I’m braced for never comes. Before I know it, he’s capping the needle and unscrewing the empty syringe. “Maybe there’s a tough one. You’ll find a little sprout growing out of a crack in the rocks in a few months.” “That would be called a weed, Beckham.”
