“We have some,” Khalil says, putting seeds aside. “Beets and carrots and kale. Some of them should’ve been planted already, but we can try.”

“Ew, kale.” I say it to make him smile, before I can stop myself.

Thankfully, he simply glowers. “It’s food.”

“Yeah, fair enough.” I hold out my hands to take some of the seed packets. “We should try.”

“We can plant the seeds and take care of them. We can make something grow.”

“Reap what you sow?” I wince.

“Something like that.” At this, the corners of his eyes crinkle, but it’s nothing more than a ghost of a smile. How do you smile when the world is breaking?

We carry our shovels into the garden and dig row upon row. One seed at a time. An hour in, my back hurts and so do a variety of muscles I didn’t know I had. My hands ache from holding the shovel. I might grow calluses, but I don’t have them yet. This is work. It’s hard, but it’s comfortable. The garden has a gentle peace to it, to the four of us working in tandem, without words to spare but in the knowledge that we’re together. And on the other side of the fence, we have more ground to plow, if we need to.

Seeds in good earth.

One of Father Michael’s sermons about the Parable of the Sower floods back to me. He insisted that we should strive to be good and fruitful soil for the word of God and not let ourselves be distracted by the cares of the world or swayed by any hardship. Only those seeds planted in the good soil will bear fruit and truth and justice.

What am I now? What would he think of me, if he saw me here? A seed among thorns? Or maybe I’ve grown into those very thorns myself. Let me get taken away and eaten by the birds; I won’t grow on good soil anymore.

I ram my shovel into the ground with fierce abandon, until wood splinters dig into my hands and the work replaces my thoughts. Until someone at the entrance to the garden calls out.

All four of us immediately pause our work. I glance sideways to Riley, and all of us feel the same immediate, overwhelming fear crawl up our spine.

Near the gate stands Grace. She’s pale. She’s lost so much weight in only a week, and I don’t think she’s slept at all. She’s developing a permanent frown. Her hands clench and unclench at her side, and she scans the garden until she sees Mei.

“I thought you’d want to know—” Her voice trips, and she clears her throat. “I’m sorry, Mei. I thought you’d want to know. Serenity died today.”

* * *

The world can change and change again over the course of a single day too. Serenity dies. She may be the first, but she certainly won’t be the last. All of us know that, but there’s a difference between knowing and seeing it happen. It’s fear that goes from realistic to real in the blink of an eye, especially when, midway through dinner, Isabella collapses.