Things still grew, just not green. God’s little green apples-and-acres were now brown. The grass was equally drab on both sides of the fence. Trees, bushes, spring cornfields—like the one Mark Prescott was racing past—were endlessly brown.
“Mom!” he shouted, slamming the door open. “Mom, I saw it!”
“What, now?” (Mark was known for telling what his grandfather called “whomp-doozies.”)
“Green grass! Just one blade, but green! I swear.”
Swearing usually indicated truthfulness, but green grass—really! “That’s nice. Wash for supper.”
“Please, Mom. In the park.” Mark chewed his lip. “I’ll greenwash the fence. Twice a week, honest. Just, come see.”
She keyed “delay dinner forty-five minutes” into her scheduler. “Very well.”
When they reached the park, it was clear where Mark was leading. A crowd had gathered beside the gazebo. Even Mr. Duchamp, the park custodian, had abandoned his blue/yellow spraypaint mixer, and craned his head for a look.
“Don’t crush it,” Mark shouted. “I found it and went to get my mom.” He barged to the front of the huddle.
“See, Mom. No whomp-doozy this time.”
Mark’s mother stared at the wonder confronting her. The gazebo beside her was already darkening to olive drab and would be brown in three days. The blade of grass, though, was unmistakably emerald, undeniably green.
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