“Caution: Land Mines!”

The little wooden sign had been there longer than anyone could remember. A good deal of the paint had peeled away from its surface over the years, but its message was clear as day.

Mr. Foswell’s petunias were expected to win the Emeryville Horticulture Society’s esteemed Blue Ribbon of Floral Propensity for the thirtieth year in a row. The newspaper even ran an article about the old man, with a big photo of him tending the plants in his signature plaid socks.

“D’you think there’s really land mines?” whispered Eddie.

“Heck no,” I said. “He just don’t want kids cutting through his yard.”

“I heard he was in the Green Berets. Used to be an explosives expert in Korea.”

“Naw, he was in furniture, you dope.”

“How d’you know that?”

“I heard it.”

“You didn’t hear jack.”

“Well there ain’t no land mines, anyway.”

“Prove it.”

“What? I ain’t goin’ in there!”

“What’cha so scared of? You said yourself, there ain’t no land mines.”

“I can’t…”

“Just pick one little flower! I dare ya.”