How peculiar. Before, David had turned off the main road, walked up the potholed lane, climbed over a rickety stile, and tramped across the stubbled field to a wispy hedge composed of elder, beech, holly, and leggy roses. It was high summer, and he was hot and sticky. The hips had been mean, orangey, and blemished. But he’d picked them because he hadn’t spotted any others in the vicinity. What little juice they contained yielded a grudging jam. Four pinkish...
