Jade Fern Grove she said, "you ain't no son of mine for what you've done"

he misses the approach of the other, but the scent comes to him in time. he's slow to react, lifting his head lazily and turning to fix the stranger with an unblinking inkjet stare. small, aged, and unimpressive. "what do you want?" he asks irritably, too lazy to convey true hostility. he gestures to the flower, irrationally paranoid. "this?" just his luck— some old junkie who can't pick his own damn flower.