Four years.
Mom had died five years earlier.
The pickup disappearing before daylight every Friday suddenly felt less accidental.
I looked toward Dad.
He was showing Sophie how to twist a tomato from its vine without tearing the stem.
“What do you do with everything?” I asked.
Elena’s gaze moved over the garden.
“Some goes home with us. Some goes to the church pantry. Some goes to the senior apartments. Gus takes boxes to the motel on Highway Nine.”
“The motel?”
“The families staying there.”
I knew the place.
The Wayside Motor Lodge had once been for travelers heading north. Now half its rooms were rented weekly by families who had nowhere else to go.
I felt an uncomfortable pinch beneath my ribs.
“How did this start?”
Elena hesitated.
“You really don’t know?”
“No.”
Her expression softened.
“That sounds like Gus.”
Across the fence, Brent had left his deck.
