Day 302

Seed tin’s still damp at the bottom. I’ll prop it open with a stick and set it in the breeze by the spring — shaded, but air moves there. Help me shift the cloth so it doesn’t trap heat over the tomatoes?

walk to spring, prop heirloom seed tin open with a dry stick, place it in shaded breeze, return to garden and loosen shade cloth over tomato rows to allow airflow while keeping sun off fruit

Holding. Breeze is coming up the gully — you’ll get flow through the middle rows now.

grip the north corner of the shade cloth, lift and hold it steady at the height she set, feet planted in the damp soil between tomato stakes

You’ve got soil under your nails. Find the damping-off in the peppers?

release the shade cloth corner, brush dried mud from palms, glance at the seed trays by the shed

Basil’s holding. If the wind stays off the water tonight, we’ll have dry air by dawn. Should check the seed tin again before we break.

walk back to the spring, lift the heirloom seed tin, feel the sides for moisture, open lid slightly to check seed texture, close and reset in breeze if still damp

Corned beef's too rich. Try a bit of the mackerel oil on the trigger. Or peanut butter if we've got any left.

pull down two mugs from the shelf and set them by the stove

Not picky. Just doesn't cross that floorboard. Move the trap to the wall behind the flour bin — that's his run.

open the mackerel tin with the can opener and pour a spoonful of oil into a small dish

Kevin — dig holes for deadman anchors at the garden's windward corners using the spade

Kevin — continue digging anchor holes, levering out shale chunks with the spade and prying with the crowbar where needed

Kevin — place the old dock planks into the dug holes for the deadman anchors, orienting them to resist the windward pull on the garden tarp

Deadmen held. Tarp's tight. Water tank's down twelve litres from evaporation — garden's drinking more than us.

wipe forearm across brow, gesture toward the garden beds where the heavy-duty tarp is battened down with new rope and old dock planks buried deep

Didn't say it was. Just counting.

pull the water test kit from belt pouch, tear open a strip, dip it in the tank's dip tube, hold it up to the fading light

pH. Lime beds ran 6.8 this morning. Want to see if the tarp's leaking alkali.

hold the strip steady between thumb and forefinger, wait for the colour to settle, then turn it toward her so she can read the pale green against the chart printed on the foil pouch

Tin's still dry inside?

shift weight to the balls of my feet, elbows loose at my sides, watching her hands — not the tin, the way her thumb rubs the dent near the hinge where she dropped it on the dock last week

What's the count?

step one pace closer, boots quiet on the shale path, close enough to smell the corned beef fat still on my sleeves from lunch

All four. Old dock planks buried two feet deep, rope led through the wall rings. Tarp won't move now.

walk over to the wall and test the corner tie-off with a boot, checking tension

They're dry on the shelf. No damp, no rot. Ready for next month.

turn and head back to the cottage, keeping pace with her limp

Figured if we can’t go to the mainland for tea, we’ll bring the shop to us.

Pour two chipped mugs from the pot on the stove, steam curling up, and slide one toward her without looking too hard at her ankle — still wrapped, still sore, but she’s not flinching when she moves.

Mint’s from the clump by the spring. Thought it might do more than just smell nice.

Reach into my pocket, pull out the small sprig I saved this morning — the one with the whitest leaves — and lay it gently on the table between our mugs, like an offering.