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Amy’s Pumpkin

The moment Amy stepped out onto the back patio, she knew something was very wrong. Still wearing just a robe and slippers, her exposed legs met the frigid autumn air with disdain. She clutched a coffee cup with both hands, keeping them warm. Not the pumpkins, she thought. The fact that pumpkins had grown here was something of a miracle. Her backyard slanted heavily, and the clay soil was unforgiving to most gardeners’ efforts. The vine itself was a fluke. A year ago, after Halloween and Thanksgiving were a memory, she had chucked the remains of the big, orange decorations
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