Page 16 of Claimed By my Father's Enemies
"Corner bolt's stripped on this one."
"Swap it. Spare kit's in the green tote."
"Got it."
Ana, from the back: "How deep on the soil?"
"Ten. These are going to hold tomatoes in July."
I don't look up when I answer them. I don't need to. We've done this a few times, in places that looked like this before we got to them. My hands know the geometry of a raised bed by now. Corner, bolt, level, next.
Emilio drags a bag past me and drops it onto the growing pile against the fence. He doesn't go back to Dev. He hovers. I can feel him there without looking up, the small weight of a question waiting to be allowed.
I raise a brow at him. He takes it as permission.
"Is this, like, legal?"
I straighten and wipe my forehead with the back of my wrist, the leather of the glove cool against damp skin. "Lot belongs to the City," I say. "But, if the City doesn't do anything, we do"
"So there's no problem that we're here."
"I didn't say that."
He waits. His weight is forward on his toes, trying to look casual and not quite getting there.
"What if the cops show up?"
"We run." I deadpan.
His eyes go huge.
I hold it for a beat. Then I shake my head, laughing. "If police come, I do the talking. You get on your scooter and go home. Whatever happens after, I handle it. My responsibility."
He thinks about that. Then he nods, once, and goes back to the fence line.
I watch him go. He's going to be fine. Not tonight necessarily, but eventually. Kids who ask whether something is legal before they commit to it have already made most of the decisions that matter.
By eleven-ten we've got four beds assembled, soil in three, and the plants staged in the flats Mira and I loaded this morning. Two kinds of tomatoes. Basil, parsley, cilantro. A row of bush beans because they'll fruit fast and feed a family for aweek. Strawberries along the south edge where they'll catch sun against the cinderblock. Nothing fussy. Nothing that needs high maintenance.
Emilio is planting a basil seedling like it might break. One glove off, bare fingers cupped around the root ball, moving with more care than I expected from him.
"Firmer," I say. "Press the soil around the base. It wants contact."
He presses. Looks up.
"Like that?"
"Like that."
He moves to the next one on his own.
Dev hauls the last empty soil bag to the trash pile and comes back brushing his palms on his jeans.
"Sign?"
"In the cab. Front seat, rolled in the blue cloth."
He jogs to the truck.
