“It’s good that you guys don’t spray any of that herbicide crap,” Tom says to me, across the fence that seperates our driveways. He’s planting morning glories to grow up the chain link.
“I do spray,” I reply.
His face darkens.
“Just a couple times a year when I get behind the weeds. You know, in the spring and the monsoon.”
“That’s not good,” Tom tells me. “It sits on the dust, and then we get the spring wind and it sifts into everything. In your house, your food, your car, your hair.”
“It’s not toxic to people, though. And it breaks down quickly in the sun.”
“You believe that crap?”
“Look, I’ll leave a 10 yard buffer between our yard and yours. I want to respect your property and all. But I’m not going to stop spraying. I just can’t keep up pulling.” I turn and walk inside.

That evening, as I’m doing the dinner dishes, I see something moving in the back yard. I turn off the light over the sink so I can see out the window better. It’s Tom. I think he’s … planting something.