“Those aren’t weeds.” He gestures to the wall, as if I have X-ray vision and can view what lies outside. “That’s Cain’s reedgrass. Smoky Mountain manna grass.” “Well, it looks awful.” “Ugh. I can’t—you are just—” He shoves a hand through his hair. At the rate he’s doing that, he’s going to end the week with bald patches.
