Benji pushed his index finger into the soft black earth and made three neat holes along the fence.

He dropped a seed into each one with a steady hand.

“Grandma, look how deep the roots can grow when we give them good water,” Benji said.

He leaned forward to scoop the damp dirt over the holes and patted it flat with both hands.

Clay reached over and helped him smooth down the last patch, their fingers working side by side in the dark soil.

Benji sat back on his heels with a dark streak of Oklahoma mud smeared across the knee of his jeans.