American Chordata: Magazine of New Writing Issue One, Spring 2015 | Page 124

106
FICTION

a dense section of trees. “I’ve complained to the county, but of course
they won’t do anything.” To the west of the farm, bright light from
a construction site punctured the darkness. I could see the skeletal
shells of the new buildings, a strip mall that promised a grocery
store and a movie theater. Mrs. Larkin had grown up on this land.
It was her family that owned the farm before a chunk of it had been
redeveloped in the name of community.
I followed her down to her car, a pert blue sedan. The interior
smelled like flowers, and a little like sweat. In the back was a yoga
mat, and a crate full of essential oils. My mother’s car was full of
coffee cups and catalogs with curling pages. I remembered how
Mrs. Larkin had told me she started a business because she couldn’t
imagine working for anyone but herself.
“Are you alright?” she said. “You seem quiet.”
“Sorry,” I said, through my teeth. “My mouth hurts.”
“That’s okay,” she said. “You don’t have to talk to please me.”
Out on the empty highway, Mrs. Larkin knew how to catch the
green lights. All she had to do was slow down a little before the