“Yes,” said Grandma. “That’s exactly it.”

The light pressing against my eyelids began to change, like a cloud had passed away from the sun and for the first time I was seeing the world undimmed. Before me was the Hummingbird Grove, but it was brighter somehow, wilder and strange-colored. Flowers grew up everywhere, so dazzling they hurt my eyes.

A blond-headed boy stood in the Hummingbird Grove. He wore a little black suit like he was just coming back from a funeral, same as I had worn yesterday. He had the brightest blue eyes, like the clearest sky you ever saw.

“Hello,” said the boy.

I snapped awake, sucking in breath like I’d been underwater for minutes. I slumped over in the grass, light-headed, and lay there.

And Grandma watched me, a peculiar smile on her face.

Like she knew.

Grandma rose to her feet and dusted off her jeans.

“Come,” she said, extending her hand to me. “Get up now. There’s work to do. Always more work to do on a farm.”

“I’m exhausted,” I said. “I feel all jittery.”

“Your mind is tired, yes, but your body still has energy to spend. And Murphy needs your help—all that painting to do. Lots to do on a farm. That’s what farms are good for.”

Grandma began her walk back toward the house. I stood, a little wobbly, and followed after her.

Hours later, as I bent over the porch, spreading white paint from an old can with a hard, flaky brush, I started to wonder when this cop was showing up. I was sunburnt, achy, and exhausted, and my head felt all fluttery. What had happened to me in the Hummingbird Grove? Had it even been real, or was it all in my head?

Still, I felt so much better just getting to talk about my visions for once and not being ashamed of them. To hear Grandma tell me that I wasn’t crazy. For the first time I wasn’t the outcast, shunned by everybody for being weird. I was special. I had a gift. And that meant more to me than just about anything ever had in all my life.

I looked over at Murphy, working hard on the other end of the porch. She was tanned deep already—Murphy always tanned where I burned—and she had paint flecks all over her face, her mouth twisted into a bit of a scowl. Her overalls were rolled up, and her tiny arms were all strong with muscle. She looked like a warrior, my little sister did. I thought about how proud Mom would have been of her, how much Mom might have liked seeing us here in the place where she grew up.

I wondered again what had happened between Mom and Grandma that had made her ditch the Farm and never return. I wondered why she never bothered to bring us out here to the beautiful home she had loved. I figured it had something to do with Mom’s stubbornness, with the way she never admitted defeat, how she never apologized, only accepted apologies from other people. Mom had been a mighty hard person to live with—I knew that from experience—and I could only imagine it was tough being her mother. So I guessed they had their reasons for fighting like they did.