The Eden Covenant

By MaryAnn Ball

Are you ready for the latter days? In her latest novel, noted author, MaryAnn Ball, tales us on a journey toward that point long prophesied. Join the Carver family as Ms. Ball incorporates so much of these troubling times into her story as the family comes to grips with the dangers that lie ahead, in their quest to be not only prepared, but unified.
The Eden Covenant is a gripping tale guaranteed to have you turning pages. Set in Idaho, with locations throughout the country, Eden relies on the strengths of this LDS family as they examine both their lives and their faith.
The Eden Covenant is the first in a trilogy that will make you ask the question: "Are ye prepared?"
The book is available in Paperback and as an eBook.

"What a page turner! The characters were richly developed and the story was not only engaging but very thought provoking. I enjoyed reading The Eden Covenant for many reasons and highly recommend it!" ~Alice H., Reviewer

• Language: English
• Publisher: BOOKS YOU CAN TRUST Publishing
• Release date: Sep 17, 2013
• ISBN: 9780991067404

Book preview

Part One: Ellie

You know how life can be going along smoothly; your business is going well, your family is growing, healthy and happy and all is right in your world? And then you have a Lehi moment; you receive a vision... a vision that changes everything....

Prologue One:

The old man watched The Shield’s face in the screen before him. The Shield knew that he was a useful tool, and his only true protection was in the continuity of his usefulness. It was a game he had played with Señor S. for a very long time. They each knew the unspoken rules and, like a well-played chess game, the moves were contemplative, calculated and closely scrutinized. Each player surreptitiously watched for a mistake on the part of the other that would give him the advantage, or an opening to cheat. And neither man had any qualms about cheating; it was a way of life and they could not have attained the power they had garnered without cheating. But the older man had been at the game longer, had more arsenal and players, and there was no pretense that The Shield's life depended on his continuing usefulness.

The old man had situated himself as usual, with a bright window that backlit him so that his face was always in the shadows. The Shield had never seen his face, but then he took great pains to assure that his own face would never be recognized by the old man or any of the coalition.

We are disappointed that more progress has not been made with the device, Señor S. said, his European accent undisguised and his voice deep and gravelly with age. Even though The Shield wore a pair of aviator style sunglasses and a nondescript cap over his wig, he could not disguise the film of sweat that erupted over his eyebrows. The old man felt a surge of satisfaction at the observation.

The device will be ready well before the time it is needed, The Shield said. You need not question that. Although there has been much accomplished in the disintegration of the United States, you are still several months away from the optimal time to deploy the device. It will be ready before you are ready for it. The Shield knew well that this move would put Señor S. on the defense, but today this risky move was the only one he had left.

The old man chuckled as if highly amused by the manipulation. Are you actually suggesting that we are not ready for the device now? We will decide when it will be deployed. We did not hire you to deliver excuses. Your assumption that we are dependent upon you is just that, an assumption. You would be wise instead to assume that we will keep all of our promises to you, including the promise of penalties for failure to honor your contract in a timely way.

The Shield smirked as if he was the one who was amused now, but his body language spoke volumes about the turn of the conversation against him. He was tense and unhappy and even though he continued to make a show of the tough bravado as he pressed his offensive position, Señor S. knew that he had won the game. After another three minutes of listening to empty promises which included a veiled threat of turning the device over to a foreign enemy, Señor S. abruptly hung up on The Shield, effectively ending the flow of words. He sat quietly for a few minutes and then swiveled his chair so that it faced the opposite dark corner of the room.

What do you want to do about The Shield?

Out of the darkness, a smooth, oily voice answered, Step up surveillance of his project. If he makes any attempt to contact another potential customer, or tries to disappear again with the device, as I suspect he will do, have him eliminated.

Senor S. was not surprised by the decision or the verdict. What The Shield did not know or could not guess at was how much they knew about him and what he was doing at all times. His movements, communications and contacts had been well monitored from the beginning of his association with the coalition. Señor S. nodded and asked, What's the next move then? Do you want to move forward with the alternative team in Denver? He watched the dark corner carefully, his eyes veiled under his bushy eyebrows. He had now moved from the role of predator to that of the prey, and both men knew it.

The man in the shadow leaned forward into the half-light that cupped the darkened corner. Señor S. felt a twinge of distrust and disgust at the sight of the shadowed face. It was a somewhat youthful face of mid-Eastern origin, smooth and unlined. The eyes were black and dark circles emphasized their dark color. This was a lean, well-muscled man who wore his thousand-dollar suits with ease and confidence because confidence was his natural state of being. It was not the overconfidence of someone trying to appear more confident than they felt; it was the kind of confidence that said, I have no illusions that I am the best trained, the most intelligent and the epitome of what everyone else wishes they were.

Señor S. had always been baffled by the man's age; he appeared ageless. He looked like he was somewhere between thirty-five and sixty-five years old, but Señor S. had been associated with this man for more than sixty years, and while he, himself, suffered from the various ailments of the advancing years, Paul Jones seemed never to change at all.

Tell the Denver team to step up its research and production. It has just become the lead team in this project. Divert the necessary funds to Denver and tell Prosper that there will be a one-million-dollar bonus if he can meet our March deadline. I want the United States of America under martial law and in my possession by the end of April, next spring. Paul Jones' voice was as cold and deliberate as dry ice against the softness of bare skin, and Señor S. shivered despite his ironclad will of his body language. He knew better than anyone what a frustrated and angry Paul Jones could and would do were his plans thwarted yet again.

He turned to make the call and behind him Paul Jones disappeared into the darkness. When Señor S. turned back to the corner, he was not surprised to find it empty.

Chapter One: Early This Morning

McKay’s cell phone rang loudly in the dark bedroom. I jerked awake, adrenaline pumping through my body as Mac fumbled in the dark for his phone. I snapped on the bedside lamp and glanced at the clock; it read three-thirty-eight a.m. Mac grabbed his phone and pushed the speaker button.

Yes? Mac gave his usual greeting, his voice gruff with concern. Yes? he repeated.

Dad? Christian’s voice sounded small and far away through the phone’s speaker.

Christian? Is that you? This is Dad, Mac confirmed as he sat up on the edge of the bed. Where are you, son? Is everything okay?

Dad, I don’t have much time to explain. We need you to meet us at the Nevada/Oregon border on Highway 95 in about …. We could hear him talking in hushed, muffled tones in the background. …in about four hours. Can you do that?

Of course; we’ll be there, Mac told him. Is everyone with you?

Yes, there are nine of us so bring the green van, Christian said. Just meet us on the Nevada side of the border. If you get there first we’ll see the van. If we get there first, just watch for the bedraggled travelers standing on the side of the road.

Son, what is going on?

I’ll explain everything when I see you, Dad. I have to go now.

What in the..., Mac started to say, but the line was dead.

He sat there looking at the phone in his hand, but I was already moving, grabbing the nearest clothes to put on. Come on! Let’s get going. I’m not going to have those babies waiting for us in the cold! I said, tossing him a t-shirt. Mac shook himself awake and started shoving his legs into his trousers. While Mac started the van, I gathered some food and water bottles from our storage shelves. Within five minutes we were pulling out of our gate.

The one hundred and seventy miles to the border seemed like a long way to drive, but the early morning traffic was nonexistent so we made good time, going through the local communities as fast as we dared, rarely stopping for traffic lights along the way. After briefly speculating about what was going on with Christian’s family, we drove in silence except for the muffled roar of the van.

We had bought the used 1975 Dodge Maxi-Van after the birth of our fifth child. We could have purchased a new one from the dealership where McKay worked as the sales manager, but when the used van was traded in for a sparkling new one in 1987, McKay was drawn to it and soon it belonged to us. It had been retrofitted to be used as a fishing van, green shag carpeting covering the entire interior, including the ceiling, as well as one bench along the left side wall. Mac had replaced the side bench with three bench seats; the back two seats were capable of laying down flat to form a queen-sized bed. We had used the van almost exclusively while our children were growing up. It was large enough for the whole family plus our children’s various friends as we traveled to and from school, church, activities and outings. We had especially enjoyed taking the Green Bean on our family vacations. It was roomy enough for all the children, luggage, camping equipment and traveling provisions. Through the intervening years, we had overhauled the engine, refinished the interior, finally replacing the shag carpeting for a more aesthetic beige low-pile carpet, and then repainted and shined up the exterior. These days we only drove it occasionally, but whenever we took our grandchildren out for any reason, they inevitably requested going in the big, green van. It wasn’t the newest or most comfortable vehicle on the road, but it was a member of our family, fully paid for, and we weren’t about to abandon it.

The miles slipped by in the early morning hours, but in spite of the limited sleep Mac and I had, we both strained forward as if our anxiety about reaching our destination could make the trip go faster. As we approached the Idaho/Oregon border, we were surprised to see three soldiers in National Guardsmen uniforms standing in the road in front of two striped barricades. Mac slowed to a stop and rolled his window down when two National Guardsmen approached the van. The chill of the early morning air washed over me and I shivered.

The soldier in the lead addressed us, Can I ask where you are heading to? He was large and muscular with an air of authority around him. I felt uneasy looking at him.

We’re on our way to the Nevada border to meet our children who are coming from California, Mac explained. I was impressed with how calm Mac had sounded. My anxiety level had hit the roof.

Can I see your driver’s license? the soldier asked. Mac pulled his license out of his wallet and handed it to him through the window of the van. He studied it for a minute and then handed it back. Where are you going after you pick up your children?

We’re going to take them back to Star, Idaho. They are going to live with us. Mac’s voice had taken on an edge, and I could see his knees shaking back and forth. He wasn’t as calm as he seemed, after all.

The soldiers conferred quietly with each other, and then the other one said, We are trying to control the number of refugees coming into Oregon. We’ll give you until noon to return back to this point. If you don’t check in with us by noon, we’ll report you and this vehicle to the Oregon Highway Patrol and have you picked up. Do you understand?

Yes, we understand. We’re just picking our children up and then we’re returning back to Idaho. You’ll see us as soon as we can possibly make it, he assured the soldiers. We’ll check in with you when we return.

The soldiers backed away and pulled one of the striped barriers from across the road. We proceeded slowly through the resulting gap. I breathed out sharply, surprised that I had been holding my breath through the whole ordeal. Mac drove slowly until after we had gone around the next curve and out of sight of the soldiers. He pulled off to the side of the road, and put his head in his hands. His shoulders shook while he sobbed as he released his pent up anxiety. My own tears slid down my face as the reality of the state of our beautiful country hit me. I reached over and wrapped my arms around my weeping husband until the sobs subsided and he wiped his face with the tissue I offered him.

What have we come to? he whispered to me. I shook my head, unable to answer as yet. We haven’t prayed yet, he said. I think this is a fine time to ask the Lord for help. Don’t you?

I agreed and then bowed my head and listened intently as Mac offered a short but fervent prayer, pleading for safety for us and Christian’s family, asking, as well, for heavenly help with this crucial mission.

He sat there for a couple more minutes, then, putting the van back into gear, he glanced behind him and pulled back onto the road. We continued to talk about what had occurred as we proceeded on our journey. Shock and dismay had colored our perception even further about the deteriorating conditions in our nation. No longer were we a free country. We had lost many of our liberties and though we didn’t want to admit it, we had become a police state. I felt lost, sad and violated. To know that my children and grandchildren were slowly being enslaved by a government that no longer protected the freedoms our forefathers had fought for was a devastating reality. It was a lot to take in. We had heard about the atrocities of the current conditions, but now we had been forced to face them, and we were appalled at the depth of our ignorance and the veracity of what we needed to do to protect our family.

We drove quietly down the ribbon of highway through the darkness. I was still reeling from the implications of the National Guardsmen presence on a border between the states. How had we come this far past sanity? As we drove, I closed my eyes, thinking about the past few days and what had led to this moment and this journey.

Chapter Two: Monday Morning

Forty-Two Hours Earlier

I stepped out the side door of the double-wide, catching the screen door before it slammed shut. Breathing deeply the crisp early morning air, I smiled to myself. I had been up before dawn for my hour of prayer and was feeling ready for my day. It was going to be a beautiful day. The sunrise heralded a soft pink glow across the eastern sky, winging like a lark into lavender and yellow through the eastern clouds. Across the way it slipped into a baby boy blanket of blue before darkening to a ripe indigo above the trees on the bank of the creek. Bowser, my brother-in-law's basset hound, bounced across the front lawn to greet me. I had never been a dog person, but Bowser and I had long ago come to an understanding. I reached down and scratched behind his ears, chuckling at his innate enthusiasm over my simple gesture of friendship.

With Bowser in tow, I started down the path walking as quickly as my old legs could carry me. I noted with appreciation that the daffodils were on the verge of blooming. The crocuses, of course, were already up, their purple heads peeking out between the leaves of their larger companions. It was such a pleasure to behold color again after the drab grays of winter. Soon the tulips would make an appearance followed closely by the lupine, and as always, the abundance of wild violas that always graced my flower beds. They grew unbidden and as free as weeds, but, as yet, I was unwilling to classify them as weeds. Instead I reveled in their rebellious desire to thrive independent of any attempt to cultivate them.

I walked along the path as it curled around the side of my ‘temporary’ home. Someday I was going to build my ultimate dream home, but I was content for the time being. It was more important to stay free and clear of debt than to build another home. I had all I needed and more. And who could argue with the view before me? The landscape in the early morning light was lush. Verdant swells in the land were topped by trees leafing against the golden brown of the nearer foothills. Along the creek, the cottonwoods and black locust trees reached up to brush against the growing light. I wondered if the hawks would be back this year to build their nest in the uppermost branches of the line of trees.

In the distance, behind the shed, I heard the first muffled roar of the tractor firing up. As early as I was up and about this morning, Mac had risen before me. After a long winter with little to do out of doors, he was like a boy again, up early and eager to be outside, his love affair with his tractor renewed. He was always on the prowl for any excuse to climb on it and put it to use. It had sat idle far too long. There hadn’t even been any reason to attach the snow plow during the winter with so little moisture having fallen.

I continued to walk around the perimeter of the farm, passing the outbuildings, the vegetable garden, orchard, animal corrals, playground, gazebo, pavilion and reception center. The lodge stood in the middle of the acreage like a sentinel. Tall and commanding, it was what caught and held the eye of any who drove up the long driveway from the gate. It had been built to last at least a hundred years. A 15,000- square- foot structure, it could easily house at least forty people at a time. The main portion of the lodge was adjoined by a smaller caretaker’s apartment over the auxiliary garage.

I loved the lodge. I had designed and built it almost twenty years ago, supervising every detail of its construction. McKay and I had lived in the actual body of the lodge for only a couple of years. We had rattled around the large house, Mac complaining about the distance between the kitchen and the bedroom and that he could never find me. When the business had finally taken off, and the lodge was often filled to capacity with guests, we had moved into the caretaker’s apartment.

We had billed Carver’s Farm as an Alcohol-Free Event Center. At first we were a little worried that there wouldn’t be enough business from groups who were willing to forego alcohol at their functions. But every year our calendar was filled with scheduled events. At first our business consisted only of wedding parties who sought us out, such as LDS brides who had always wished for something different than a cultural hall reception. But news of our event center had spread quickly through word of mouth and the weekends at Carver’s Farm Event Center were soon filled with wedding functions. Next we added family reunions to our menu of events and, later, offered Carver's Farm as a venue for retreats. We were able to maintain an alcohol-free environment for all events. Many families who came for reunions, some of them nonmembers, would not have brought alcohol to their reunions where children would be present anyway. There were also several corporate clients that were happy to have the excuse of excluding alcohol at their retreats, as well as student groups from secondary schools or colleges that were seeking venues that discouraged drug and alcohol use.

Aah, what pleasure we gained from the memories of the first busy years of launching our event business! How hard we had worked together, loving every minute of it. Each year it had been a race to see if our income could outlast our needs. Every penny that could be classified as profit had been invested back into the business. Sometimes it had felt as if we would never finish building and refurbishing the farm. But Mac and I had been happy living together in our little honeymoon nest.

The caretaker's apartment was small and didn't have enough room for all of our children plus their children to gather, even for Sunday dinner during the months of cold weather. But, in spite of the full calendar of booked events, we managed to have our fair share of family parties in the lodge or on the patio during hot summer days. We learned to schedule our own functions first, and then to work our clients around our calendar. There had been a steep learning curve, but eventually all the parts and pieces had fallen into place and finally we were managing our business and family with ease.

Now my youngest sister, Rebecca, lived in the apartment. When Mac and I had been called to serve in the Manhattan Temple mission as ordinance workers, we had begged Becca to come and manage our business for us. At the time, she was still grieving the loss of her spouse, Anthony, and wasn’t sure she wanted to leave her home and her family in Pleasant Grove. But she was also swimming in debt after the long-term care of her dying husband. So she sold her home and came to Carver’s Farm. Her presence had been such a blessing to us! She was a natural-born businesswoman and event planner. Throwing her energy into the work involved in running a full-time event center had been a blessing for her, as well. The work had forced her to deal with her pain, and fulfilling the various needs of appreciative guests had given her life purpose and sweetness.

When we returned home from New York, we decided to wait to build another home until we could pay cash for it. Other than the initial mortgage for the lodge, we had resisted going into debt for our business. All buildings and improvements were paid for with the profits from the business. We had sacrificed and scrimped, but when the last mortgage payment on the lodge had been paid, we threw a big mortgage burning party and were gratified by the peace that comes from living a debt-free life. Therefore, we chose to buy a less expensive double-wide, and moved it onto the northwest corner of the farm until we had enough saved to build another home free and clear of obligation. That was eight years ago but increasing taxes, along with the inflating prices that were inevitable in a country where the government funded its own unsustainable debt, had made it impossible for us to save enough to build our home. However, I was beyond impatience in my life and had no reason to be unhappy that everything wasn’t yet perfect.

As I crossed over to the path that passed behind the Silers’ house, I glanced at the kitchen window and caught sight of my sister at the kitchen sink. Hannah waved to me and I waved back. Grateful for the excuse to stop, I sank into one of the patio chairs to wait for her. Bowser, discovering to his amazement that he was home, went over to check if there was food in his bowl. Finding it still empty, he wandered off to start his own daily rounds of doggy business.

Good morning, Ellie, Hannah greeted me as she emerged from the patio door. Sagging into the chair next to me, she began pushing her feet into her jogging shoes. Hannah never really jogged, but she always maintained that jogging shoes were better than walking shoes because they just knew how to get the job done faster. How many times have you gone around, so far? she asked me.

This is the first time, I assured her. I didn’t care which one of us walked more in the mornings, but Hannah was naturally competitive and didn’t like to lose any contest, declared or not. It would have been so easy to tease Hannah as I had done before, and tell her that I was on the third circuit. But I was still enjoying the peace of the morning and didn’t want it to be disrupted by Hannah’s dismay of being so far behind me in our regular morning routine. We usually walked three times around the perimeter of the forty acres that comprised Carver’s Farm. The morning journey took roughly an hour to make, but we enjoyed our sister time together. It gave us the opportunity to start our day with a ‘gab up.’

Hannah was barely eleven months younger than me. We were true Irish twins; I was born in January and Hannah in December of the same calendar year. We were also best friends; always had been. We might have turned on each other living in such close quarters of the small, shared bedroom for most of our lives, but our personalities meshed together so well that we often knew what the other was thinking before the thought was finished. We usually walked together every Monday through Friday morning. Saturday morning we served in the Meridian Temple with our husbands. It was the highlight of the week for both of us.

I watched Hannah do a few warmup stretches before we resumed walking. Of us three sisters, I had always thought that Hannah was the prettiest. Her short blond hair had a soft sheen to it, with just enough curl at the ends to frame her jaw and tuck under in the back. Her features had always been beautiful with her bow-shaped lips and small button nose and she still had but a few wrinkles; the skin on her cheeks was smooth and dewy soft; her eyes, large and bright blue. She had retained her girlish figure in spite of the parts that now sagged here and there a little. I was more pear-shaped and wrinkled, and my straight brown hair was mostly gray now.

Straightening up she asked, Are you ready to continue on, old girl?

I glanced around as if to see who she was referring to. Are you talking to me? I returned. I thought maybe there was a mirror behind me. Hannah giggled as we started on down the path.

Have you heard from Christian yet? she asked me.

My son Christian and his wife lived in Fremont, California, with their four daughters. We hadn’t heard from them in more than a month and this really concerned Mac and me. We were starting to make plans to travel to Fremont to see them and bring them back to Star if necessary, but this just wasn’t the best time for any kind of travel, let alone a road trip to California.

I tightened my lips and shook my head. Hannah patted my arm in sympathy and we huffed along the path. Our routine walk in the morning wasn’t purely for entertainment. There was an unspoken agreement between us that we needed to keep fit and prepare for any contingency that our troubled world might throw at us.

Let’s see if Becca wants to join us, I suggested after the first lap. Hannah agreed so we turned up the driveway to the lodge. We had walked twenty minutes without stopping, and since I wasn’t the one who wished to become fanatic about exercise, any excuse to take it easy for a minute or two was seized upon without complaint.

Becca was in her small office talking on her cell when we opened the door to the lodge. She motioned to us to wait so we went into the kitchen to get some water. A few minutes later she joined us, looking grave.

Have you received any more information? she asked me.

I shook my head no. Not really; just a deepening sense of urgency. Whatever is going to happen will happen soon, I answered. But, it’s too pretty today to start worrying about the inevitable.

I think the inevitable has already started, Becca said.

Why? What happened? Hannah and I asked together. I could hear the alarm in her voice that echoed my own.

That was Sister Bowler on the phone. She wanted to know if we could put up the Oakes family for a while. Apparently Luella Oakes lost her job and she and her two children are being evicted from their home. They don’t have anywhere else to go. I told her I would talk it over with you, and we left it at that.

Hannah and I looked at each other, recognizing the implications of this request. It’s time for another business meeting, I said. Looking at Becca I said, Would you set it up for tonight? We can call it Family Home Evening.

Sure, she answered, her voice subdued. Why don’t you all come over for dinner at six. We can talk after we eat.

I’ll bring dessert! Hannah offered. We laughed with her because it was a well-known fact that Hannah had an insatiable sweet tooth. I, for one, was grateful that she had broken the somber mood that had befallen us.

Chapter Three: I Tell Tory a Story

Thirty-Two Hours Earlier

I had been in my garden only a few minutes when I heard a singsong voice calling, Hi, Gamma Ellie! Straightening up, I looked around to see Tory bouncing towards me down the garden path.

Hi, sweetheart. I gave her a big hug, surprised to see her there. Don’t you have school today?

It’s spring break, Gamma! Tory exclaimed, astonished that I wasn’t aware of her school schedule.

Well, how fun for you, I answered. Does your family have plans to do anything this week? I asked her.

Nah. Not really. The twins are going out to the desert to shoot guns with Kyle and Palmer, but I will probably just babysit Izzy while Mom works. At least I can earn some money for girls’ camp.

Tory had recently turned twelve and was looking forward to her first Young Women’s girls’ camp. She just knew in her twelve-year-old heart that it was going to be the highlight of her life. Her oldest brothers, Henry and Cole, were our oldest grandchildren. They were twins and getting ready to graduate from high school. Then they would prepare for their mission after they turned eighteen, at the end of summer.

That sounds like a good idea, I told her. I taught the Mia Maids in our ward and was expected to go to girls’ camp as well. But, I wasn’t sure that I was looking forward to it as much as Tory was.

I was wondering if my friends and I could come over some day this week and watch a movie in the lodge theater, Tory said.

That sounds like fun, I answered. I don’t think it would be a problem, but you’ll have to ask Aunt Becca about it and set it up with her.

No problem, Tory exhaled. What are you doing?

I’m preparing the beds for the early spring planting, I answered. Do you want to help me?

Tory brightened up, Sure. I can do gardening for one of my Young Women’s goals. What do you want me to do?

Let’s go find you a spade and some gloves. We can fetch the seeds we’ll be planting today while we’re in the potting shed.

Tory skipped ahead of me towards the small shed in the corner of the vegetable garden. We found her some gloves and a trowel in short order, and then I pulled out the box of seeds I had ordered online in January from my favorite heirloom seed company. I chose packets of seeds for lettuce, peas, chard, spinach, radishes, celery, carrots, parsley and cilantro. Tory picked up the seed packages one at a time, examining them and collecting them reverently in her hand. She picked up a package of melon seeds and studied it. She asked, When do we plant these?

I’m planning on starting those sometime this week; hopefully tomorrow if I have time. Several years ago, Grampa Mac rigged up the misting system and the grow light in here so that I could start seeds early for tomatoes, peppers and melons, I explained. I showed her the small flats of tomato seeds I had planted earlier in the month and we marveled together at the tiny plants that were beginning to emerge from the potting soil.

As Tory reached for one of the packages I had set aside for later, her elbow caught the trowel she had set on top of the potting bench and sent it tumbling to the floor.

Sorry, she apologized as she bent over to pick it up. She sat back on her heels and peered inside the old wooden shelves under the work bench. Suddenly she dove forward, wedging her slim body between the shelves, reaching far underneath the bench.

Hey, Gamma, she exclaimed as she stood back up. What’s this? She was holding a small, tin watering can. It was obviously an ancient relic, the tin dented with rust coloring the ridges of the dents. The faded outline