CHAPTER 1: THE FRICTION OF THE SEED Shut it down, Arthur, Evelyn said, her voice cutting across the narrow strip of rye grass like the scrape of a rusted shovel on concrete. You’ve got two feet of clear easement before you hit my fence, and that pile of cedar is sitting dead center on my…
CHAPTER 1: THE FRICTION OF THE EDGE The sharp, metallic snap of the starter cord against the plastic housing of the green push mower always vibrated straight through Arthur’s arthritic wrists before the engine finally caught. He spat a fleck of dry tobacco into the parched, yellowing turf at his boots and adjusted his grip…
CHAPTER 1: THE FRICTION OF OTHERS The heat in the valley didn’t pass through the neighborhood; it sat in the ditches like stagnant water, smelling of sulfur and wet limestone. It was three o’clock on a Tuesday, the hour when the asphalt on the cul-de-sac softened enough to hold the imprint of a boot heel….