Sun licked dew from five acres of waist-high grass—illegal height in Tennessee. Matthew drove
the lawn-mower down the ramp backward. Half & half. That’s what we decided when he hopped
off. I went first, gear locked on three and steady—machine and myself at a good hum. I didn’t
feel the bump, only saw grass quiver. I gave Matthew the sandwich and wrapped my hand in the
plastic bag. The kit’s body swung limp and broken. I threw it toward Matthew’s side along with
its mother. My half of the field still needed to be mowed.
