Greta felt foolish the moment the question was out of her mouth.

“They were in poor Black neighborhoods.”

The garden was divided casually, some plots larger, some smaller, some with plants sown in immaculate rows and others in a state of overgrown abundance. People had built all sorts of potting benches, shelves, raised beds, and other unidentifiable structures.

Veronica’s plot was at the far corner of the garden.

“People think the bees are gonna get out and sting them, so they want me as far away as possible,” Veronica said with a sneer. “They don’t get that the bees can leave whenever they want, that they’ve got no interest in stinging people unless people try to kill them, and that it’s these bees that are pollinating their damn vegetables.”

The hives looked like Styrofoam coolers on legs, and there was a large plastic barrel resting beside them. Tools Greta didn’t recognize lay tidily on a warped wood shelf.

“Did you build all this?”

“Yeah, all the wood is salvage. After Katrina, there was all this wood from the houses left. Some of it rotted, but a lot of the structures here are from busted-up houses. So when I got this plot a few years ago, it was here. I just repurposed it. Okay, you wanna see the bees?”

Greta nodded. “Do you wear one of those suits?”

“Nah, not with my bees. I know them. They’re gentle as hell. Just wanna eat pollen and chill. They won’t hurt you.”

“Eek, okay.”

Don’t flinch, don’t flinch, don’t flinch, Greta commanded herself.

Veronica took the cover off one of the boxes to reveal the wood frames inside. Bees buzzed lazily on top, and Veronica hummed to them. The buzzing was a quiet thrum that Greta could feel in her chest and temples and fingertips.

Veronica slid a wooden frame out of the hive. It had bees clustered on one corner, and they quickly flew back into the hive. The frame, free of bees, looked like a solid pillar of wax.

“This is the cap.” Veronica pointed at the wax. “Once the honey is made, the bees put this beeswax cap over it to keep the honey in. It’s got a lower moisture content. To get at the honey, we gotta scrape it off. Hand me that?”

Greta handed her the tool she was pointing at. It looked like a cross between a bread knife and a machete.

Veronica positioned the frame over a metal bucket and slid the instrument along the wood, slicing off the wax cap. Golden honey glistened underneath, shining in the morning sun.

“Wow,” Greta breathed.

“Taste it,” Veronica said. She ran a finger over the fresh honey and brought it to her mouth. With closed eyes, she savored the honey. “It’s my favorite taste in the world.”