Sarah presses her cheek against the cow parsley. Mother-Die, my grandmother called it, she says.

I loom above, looking across the field, waiting for someone to come, to tell us we don’t belong.

Sarah rolls over, raises her hands to the sky, stems and flowers raining from her fingers. Come on, she says, and pats the ground, but my trousers are freshly pressed, and grass stains are a horror to remove.

Besides, I say, can you be sure that’s not hemlock?

Her disappointment blooms before she turns back to the earth and disappears into herself.