Max looks back and forth between us and then stops, pointing at this bush we pass every day, which is covered in purple flowers that weren’t there the week before. “You see that?” he asks. “That’s the New England aster. It doesn’t normally bloom until September or October.” The depth of Max’s useless knowledge never ceases to amaze me. “What’s your point, Max?” sighs Ginny. “Because I feel sure there’s a point here.” “My point,” Max continues, “is that things don’t bloom because they’re told it’s the correct time. They bloom because the conditions are right.” “What the hell are you talking
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