Restoring Harmony by Joelle Anthony

a story about people stealing from the garden at night.”
    From what I knew about Doug, that sounded about right. He would’ve wanted to seem useful if he was going to live off his sister. Grandpa added a few pinecones to the bag to use as fire starters while I sat on a boulder and dug a stone out of my sandal.
    “His sister and husband lived here last year?” I asked. “You mean they died that recently?”
    For some reason, I thought it had been a while. I guess because of the way Brandy talked about it like it was no big deal. Of course, when you’re six, even a few months is a long time. I picked up some sticks for kindling.
    Grandpa nodded. “Flu,” he said. “Over the winter. Both the husband and wife, and the baby too. I guess Doug didn’t know I was a doctor. He never asked for help.”
    “That’s just awful,” I said. My nose prickled in that funny way like when you’re about to tear up over something sad but you’re not actually going to cry. “He never told me.”
    Grandpa put an arm around my shoulder and gave me a squeeze. “Yeah, well . . . he used to be a lot more friendly. We talked some last summer, but since they died . . . he keeps to himself. At least he did until you forced your way into the garden.”
    He smiled at me, so I knew he was just teasing. We’d reached the end of the housing development and the creek disappeared into some woods. There was a big sign that said PRIVATE PROPERTY and three strings of barbed wire blocking our way.
    “Can you get through the fence if I hold the wire up?” Grandpa asked.
    “Probably, but I don’t want to get shot or anything.”
    “Ah, don’t worry about it. I know the guy who owns this land.”
    He grabbed the top wire and lifted it, and I scooted in between, grazing my calf.
    “Ow.”
    “You’re fine,” he said.
    “Gee, thanks! Are you coming?”
    “No way. I’m too old to run if we have to make a quick getaway.” He saw the shocked look on my face and laughed. “I’m kidding. I’m kidding. Ben Jamieson was a doctor at the hospital with me. He’s pretty good with a golf club, but I doubt he’s ever shot a gun. Besides, he lives way on the other side of the property. Just go look in the underbrush for a few logs.”
    I sighed. I hoped Grandpa knew what he was doing. Or rather, what I was doing! I walked along the creek into the deep shadows of the fir trees. Silence enveloped me, and the scent of pine made my heart churn with homesickness. If only I knew how Mom was doing . . . Maybe now that she’d heard Grandma was alive, her mind had eased. I hoped so.
    The squatters had obviously ignored the PRIVATE PROPERTY sign too and weren’t concerned about getting shot because there was a beaten footpath along the creek and not much wood in the brush. What was there was mostly too big to haul away. Off the path I found enough branches to fill the bag until it was too heavy to carry. We went back for three loads before we called it quits. In the yard, Grandpa and I collapsed on the blanket next to Grandma, hot, sweaty, and exhausted.
    “Wait,” she said, getting up.
    “Oh, we’re not going anywhere,” I told her.
    She came back with two tall glasses of water, and Grandpa and I drank them down gratefully. Then I got up to stack the wood somewhere dry. The sky was so empty and blue that it didn’t look like it would ever rain again, but you couldn’t be too careful.
    “Just leave it on the grass,” Grandpa said. “Your grandma will stack it under the eaves.”
    “Oh, that’s okay,” I said. “I can take care of it.”
    “No,” he said. “I want her to do it as part of her physiotherapy.”
    “What do you mean?” I asked.
    “Me,” Grandma said. “I’ll do it.”
    I watched her pick up a few sticks in her scrawny arms and carry them towards the house.
    “For a while,” Grandpa said, “she was making really good progress. We did physio and speech therapy every day, but then she just lost interest. I think she was