I make the garden and the orchard grow. The patients–some folks call them inmates, but out in the garden they’re patients to me–like the time they’re allowed out here. I talk to them when the nurses aren’t hovering. Some of the patients know a lot about herbs and flowers, and we talk about all the possibilities of crushing roots and distilling blooms. A few patients though–and I feel real sorry for these–aren’t allowed to visit the gardens nor the apple orchard. The apple orchard worries the head nurse. She worries too much if you ask me. She makes me check to trees for poison. How would anyone poison my apples? All the poison apples in the world won’t get anyone out of this place. I should know.