Page 383 of Ripe
Beneath my bare feet, the tree’s roots move.
I stiffen.
They aren’t coming toward me.
They’re moving away.
Outward.
Toward the edge of the property.
Then beyond it.
My breath catches as my awareness follows.
Miles.
Tiny connections flicker through the darkness.
Gardens.
Fields.
Forests.
Places I’ve never seen.
Orchards.
So many fucking orchards.
The land.
Not Ward Farm.
All of it.
“What?” Ezra asks.
I can’t answer him.
The red kernel splits.
A seed rests inside.
And suddenly, I understand.
The Keeper was never supposed to belong to one farm.
One family.
One Harvest.
Keepers weren’t cages.
They were gardeners.
Caretakers.
