He snipped a dead branch from a thick thorny bush.

The metal blades ground together with a harsh scrape.

He leaned heavily on the handles of the shears, watching me stand in the mud.

I walked over to the tree and stopped a few feet away.

The rain hit the plastic of his coat in a steady rhythm.

“I’m looking for a new grave,” I said.

“Jonathan Prescott.

He was buried last week.”