quiet for a long time.
“And five?” Mr. Hale asked.
I looked at Brandon.
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“Five,” I said. “He comes to my house every Saturday morning for the summer. And he helps me in the garden.”
Brandon stared at me.
“I’m seventy-nine,” I said. “My knees are shot. The tomatoes are getting away from me. And I think you could use some dirt on your hands.”
Brandon didn’t say anything for a long time.
Then he stood up from George’s rocking chair.
He looked down at me.
“Mrs. Whitaker,” he said.





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