We start calling it the crack farm because the boy tells us to.His name is Milo, we learn on his third visit. He is seventeen, but he looks fifteen because he grew up on mall pretzels and rainwater, and he is angry in a way that is not loud, just steady, like water cutting concrete.On his fourth visit he does not bring dust. He brings a slab of concrete, broken, no bigger than a plate, with a green line running through the crack that splits it.“I grew it,” he says to Mara, placing the slab carefully in the empty bowl that has become his. The bowl that was his dust is now his account.Mara peers at the green line. It is goosefoot and clover tangled together, roots white and fine, holding the two halves of concrete so they do not fall apart.“It is not holding soil,” Creek says, touching the roots. “It is making soil. The roots exhale acid, tiny, that eats concrete. Concrete becomes calcium. Calcium becomes soil.”“How long?” Draven asks, because he always asks how long.“Years,” Cre
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