“He used to joke about it,” she said, her voice fading to a soft murmur. “He said the tenth square was the one that kept the other nine alive.”
“Where did he write that down?” I asked, leaning closer.
She did not answer, her eyes drifting toward the empty sugar bowl in the center of the table as she began smoothing her apron once more.
At eleven, I walked into Oakhaven Hardware, the floorboards creaking under my boots.
The air smelled of motor oil, grass seed, and damp pine needles, a heavy, dusty scent that usually made me feel safe.
Gary, the clerk behind the counter, nodded as I approached the register.
“I need a professional hundred-foot measuring tape, Gary,” I said. “The heavy steel kind.”
He reached under the counter and pulled out a bright orange plastic case with a metal hand crank.
“Doing some surveying?” he asked, tapping his fingers on the glass countertop. “Your brother Arthur was in here yesterday asking about renting a brush hog and some land-clearing tools.”
