The garden was the only thing Ruth Calloway owned that was entirely her own.
It was small—four rows of vegetables and two bushes of tomatoes and a patch of wildflowers at the edge that nobody tended and nobody asked about. It sat behind her duplex on County Road 12 in rural Ohio, a stretch of asphalt that runs between cornfields and gas stations and houses that have not been painted since the nineteen-eighties. The garden grew things. Ruth watered them. The rain fell....
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