Eli nodded. “Happens. Just don’t let it happen again.” “Yeah, yeah. Of course,” the man said, climbing into his car. With a wave and a vague apology, he drove off. Eli stood there for another minute before walking back toward the house. Margaret was trimming the rose bushes, her gloves muddy.
“Someone parked down by the corn,” Eli said. “Told him to move.” She didn’t stop working. “And?” “He apologized. Said the lot was full.” Margaret looked up then, her eyes narrowing just a bit. “They’ll come back,” she said.
Eli shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not.” But even as he said it, he didn’t quite believe it. The next few days passed without incident. Eli almost began to believe that the lone silver car had been a one-off—a moment of poor judgment by a single impatient shopper. But then came Saturday.
It was just past ten in the morning when Eli stepped out with his coffee and spotted them: three cars, not one, now scattered along the edge of his southern field. One had pulled in so deeply that it was nearly touching the irrigation trench.