We lined the bulbs in tight little rows, hoping to make the garden look lush and vibrant. The captain spat in the dirt, saying that we’re just “painting our own gravestones” and we should dowse for water. She walked away, as she always does after giving orders. Breck and I smiled at each other, knowing the underground water was a waste. Only the rain came clean and safe to drink, for flowers too.
I pulled out another small bag of tulip bulbs. “Found these in the burnt-out garden center. I think they’re pink.”
Breck nodded. “The captain will like them.”