Carl had been out of work for six months when he noticed the plastic shed behind the Sparway. It wasn't much of a shed. Just a frame of old pipes and plastic sheeting that had yellowed with age. But inside, there were flowers. He noticed it on a Tuesday. He was walking home from the night shift—midnight to ten, stocking shelves and checking IDs and occasionally telling teenagers that no, they could not buy lighters without ID, even though the man behind the counter usually just handed them over. The flowers were in pots. Old milk jugs cut in half. Plastic buckets with holes poked in the bottom. And in one of them was an orchid. White. With dark spots on the petals that looked like coal dust.

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