The fox freezes and stares straight at me. Snapped twigs are a dead give-away. Arthritis gleans my strength.
‘Get goin’ little fella.’ Mentally, I try forcing him to move on. He vanishes into damp weeds. Not one blade bent at his passing.
I search the area through the fourth generation binoculars. My partner is invisible. I hope. The plants are over eight feet high. Almost ready to harvest. The garden’s guarded with nets that almost hide it from view. Almost.
I feel the familiar badge poke my gut. Time waits for no man. I wonder who’ll show for my retirement party. Thoughts of Belize, and Anna, invade the job at hand.
Another twig snaps. It’s no fox.
I rise slow — easy. The cold end of the AK-47 steals my soul.