The tomatoes came in
The call stopped being a check and went back to being a conversation.
It’s August. Emily still calls. Earlier now — around seven, while she’s making dinner. Last night they talked for thirty-one minutes about tomatoes. Not once about whether Maria was okay.
Maria’s garden in golden late-afternoon light, seen from the back porch through a warm haze. Two small figures stand at a distance among the vines, facing away. A bowl of tomatoes sits on the porch step, and the wall clock from the first chapter appears once more, reading seven o’clock.