“I think it’s nice,” my mother said, walking around from the back of the wagon. “Gives us the chance for something hot”—she gave my father a significant look—“to eat. It gets frustrating making do with whatever you can grab at the end of the day. A body wants more.” My father’s mood seemed to temper considerably. “There is that,” he said. “Sweet?” my mother called to me. “Do you think you could find me some wild sage?”
