Dean had already been sick for months by then, though neither of us liked saying the word « sick » out loud.
He still insisted on doing things himself, even when carrying a bag of soil from the garage to the backyard left him breathing hard.
One Saturday morning, he stood near the fence holding a young apple sapling and said, « This spot gets the best sun. »
I folded my arms.
« You were told not to lift anything heavy. »
« It’s a tree, Sloane. I’m not lifting weights in the gym. »
« It has dirt attached to it. Surely, you should stay away from germs. »
He chuckled. « Germs are very dangerous. »
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