Five stern faces stared at me from their bed of rotten soil. It was all we had left after the floods. The plants shook petals disagreeably, but I topped up the harsh ground with the bottle of rainwater I had left on the windowsill.
“Once a flood, always a flood.” The counsil’s words rang in my mind. True: we had been pushed back and forth across the poverty line our entire life because of the weather. We had been made slaves of the tyrant wind.
I don’t know why the Marigolds glared at me; I was saving them, after all.