The Fig Tree
A Short Story
The Fig Tree
Milton Watson was scraping the last of his eggs when a truck growled into his driveway, dust rising like breath from a grave. His house sat alone, a quarter-mile from the nearest soul. Morning visitors were rarer than rain in July.
He half-expected the sheriff. But it was Molly.
Barefoot. Hair a tangled dare. Tank top hollering PEACHY. She hel…
