A hot breeze stirred the leaves on the trees above Cullen’s head but did nothing to relieve the sticky heat that hung over the small garden like an invisible layer of molasses. He moved along the neat rows of vegetables, fruits and herbs, examining every plant. With each step, he raised a small cloud of dust that fell back to earth with no wind to stir it. Some plants he was pleased with, others not so much.
He removed his straw hat and wiped his brow with an arm. Sweat rolled down his back and hairy chest. He wore no shirt under his overalls, since the heat would be unbearable.
We’d better get some rain soon. He scanned the sky, as he did most days, in a fruitless search for rain-bearing clouds and shook his head in dismay. Or we’ll lose a lot of food we need for the winter. Bringing up
