So, after seeing a local news story about a buckthorn infestation striking waterfront properties, Al had hit a Kinko’s, then driven six towns east to stuff fliers into over a hundred riverfront mansion mailboxes, before even telling Henry he’d be needing his recently gifted pickup and a handful of Papa’s tools. An extra set of hands—Henry’s—couldn’t hurt, either.

It was only 8:00 a.m., but the swampy broil radiating off the water at the back end of the property was so relentless that even the mosquitoes had to fight through the hot pulp of the air. This was not how Henry had imagined spending the first Monday of summer vacation.

Since this had all been Al’s idea, he insisted on leading the way with the chainsaw, buzzing through the barky stalks. That left the grunt work to Henry. It was his job to gather and pile up the thorny clusters into the wheelbarrow, run it all the way across the acre-long property to the street and unload the debris into the truck bed, only to jog the emptied barrow back for another load, over and over.

The work was hell and only got harder. Every inch the sun climbed into the sky lifted another degree after it on the thermometer. Each sweep of the chainsaw brought them closer to the shore below, meaning there was that much more slope for Henry to climb back up, in order to heft the next load of buckthorn stalks and branches into the wheelbarrow waiting on the flat swath of yard above. Sawdust clung to perspiration, his skin beneath it breaking out in itchy hives. The cocktail of humidity and the two-stroke engine’s exhaust had him winded, nauseated.