She knows little of her own heritage but decided years ago with haphazard conviction that she is Russian. It’s the country people always guess first, so she ran with it. These clovers likely blossom in her homeland. Maybe a pair of great-great-great-great-great grandparents made love in a field of them. At the library, she imagined this until it grossed her out. She researched the clovers until a man spilled his energy drink on her lap, forcing her to pack up and return to the Rabbit Hutch.
