She muttered more threats as she pushed by Hugo and headed through the double doors behind the counter. As the doors swung back and forth, Wallace could see what looked to be a large kitchen, the appliances steel, the floor covered in square tiles.
Hugo nodded toward a hallway at the back of the room. “Come on. You’ll like this, I think.”
Wallace doubted that immensely.
CHAPTER
7
Apollo seemed to know where they were going, prancing down the hallway, tail wagging. He looked back every now and then to make sure Hugo followed.
Hugo went through another entryway without looking back to see if Wallace would follow. The walls were covered in wallpaper, old but clean: little flowers were etched in that seemed to bloom as they walked by, though Wallace thought it might have been a trick of the light. A door on the right led to a small office, a desk inside covered with papers next to an ancient computer.
A door on the left was closed, but it seemed to be another way into the kitchen. He could hear Mei moving around inside along with the clatter of dishes as she sang at the top her lungs, a rock song that had to be older than she was. But since Wallace couldn’t be sure how old she was （or, if he was being honest with himself, what she was）， he decided to let it pass without comment.
Another door on the right led to a half bathroom with a sign hanging on it that read: GUYS, GALS, & OUR NONBINARY PALS. Beyond it was a set of stairs, and if Wallace still had a heartbeat, he was sure it’d be racing.
But Hugo paid it no mind, passing the stairs, heading for a door at the end of the hall. Apollo didn’t wait for him to open it, instead walking through it. Wallace learned then that he still wasn’t used to such things, and though he was sure he could do the same, he waited for Hugo to open the door.
It led outside and into darkness.
Wallace hesitated until Hugo motioned for him to walk through. “It’s okay. It’s just the backyard. Nothing will happen to you out there.”
The air was cooler still. Wallace shivered and wondered again why he was shivering. He could make out Apollo’s tail down in the yard, but it took time for his eyes to adjust. He gasped quietly as Hugo flipped a switch near the door.
Strings of light that hung above them burst to life. They stood on a back deck of sorts. There were more tables on it, the chairs turned over and set atop them. The lights had been strung around the deck railing and the eaves overhead. More plants were hanging down, bright flowers that had turned in on themselves against the night.
“Here,” Hugo said. “Watch.” He went to the edge of the deck near a set of stairs. He flipped another switch set against a wooden strut, and more lights turned on below the deck, revealing dry, sandy soil and row after row of …
“Tea plants,” Hugo said before Wallace could ask. “I try to grow as much of my own as I can, only importing leaves that wouldn’t survive the climate. There’s nothing like a cup of tea from leaves that you’ve grown yourself.”
Wallace watched as Apollo trotted up and down the rows of plants, stopping only briefly to sniff at the leaves. Wallace wondered if he could actually smell anything. Wallace could, a deep and earthy scent, one which grounded him more than he expected.
“I didn’t know they grew from the ground,” Wallace admitted.
“Where did you think they came from?” Hugo asked, sounding amused.
“I … never really thought about it, I guess. I don’t have time for such things.” As soon as the words left his mouth, he realized how it sounded. Normally, he wouldn’t have given it a second thought, but these were strange days. “Not that it’s a bad thing, but…”
“Life gets away from you,” Hugo said simply.
“Yeah,” Wallace muttered. “Something like that.” Then, “Why tea?”
He followed Hugo down the stairs. The plants were tall, the biggest and most mature rising to Wallace’s waist. In passing, almost at the back of his mind, he noticed the cable stretched tight between himself and Hugo.
He stopped when Hugo crouched down, reaching out to touch the leaves of one of the tallest plants. The leaves themselves were small and flat and green. He touched one briefly, his fingers trailing along the tip. “Guess how old this plant is.”
“I don’t know.” He looked around at the other plants. “Six months? A year?”
Hugo chuckled. “A little older than that. This one was one of my first. It’s ten years old next week.”
Wallace blinked. “Come again?”
“Growing tea isn’t for everyone,” Hugo said. “Most tea plants don’t mature until around three or four years. You can harvest the leaves before then, but something’s missing from the flavor and scent. You have to put in the time and have patience. Too early, and you risk killing the plant and having to start all over again.”
“Is this one of those times where we’re talking about one thing, but you mean something else entirely?”
Hugo shrugged. “I’m talking about tea plants, Wallace. Something on your mind?”
Wallace wasn’t sure he believed him. “I have many things on my mind.”
Hugo said, “In the fall, some of the plants flower, these little things with a yellow center and white petals. The smell is indescribable. It mingles with the scent of forest, and there’s nothing like it in all the world. It’s my favorite time of year. What’s yours?”
“Why do you care?”
“It’s just a question, Wallace.”
Wallace stared at him.
Hugo let it go. “Sometimes, I talk to the plants. It sounds weird, I know, but studies have been done showing plants respond to encouragement. It’s not conclusive, and it’s not necessarily the wording as much as it is the vibrations of the voice. I’m thinking of setting up speakers sometime soon, to play music for the plants to hear. Have you ever talked to a plant?”
“No,” he said, distracted by the rows of green, the dark soil holding them in place. They were planted with about four or five feet between them, the leaves glossy in the starlight, and pungent, so much so that it caused Wallace to wrinkle his nose. It wasn’t a bad smell （quite the contrary, in fact）， just overwhelming. “That’s stupid.”
Hugo smiled. “A little bit. But I do it anyway. What could it hurt, right?” He looked back down at the plant before him. “You have to be careful when you harvest the leaves. If you’re too rough, you can end up killing the plant. It took me a long time to get it right. I can’t even begin to tell you how many I’ve had to pull out and throw away because of my own haste.”
“Plants are living things,” Wallace said.
“They are. Not like you and me, but in their own way.”
“Are there ghost plants?”
Hugo stared at him, mouth agape.
Wallace scowled at him. “Don’t give me that look. You told me to ask questions.”
Hugo closed his mouth as he shook his head. “No, it’s not—I’ve never thought about it that way. Curious.” He squinted up at Wallace. “I like where your mind goes.”
Wallace looked away.
“No,” Hugo said. “I don’t think there are ghost plants, though it would be wonderful if there were. They’re alive, yes. And maybe they respond to encouragement. Or maybe they don’t and it’s a little story we like to tell ourselves to make the world seem more mysterious than it actually is. But they don’t have a soul, at least none that I’m aware of. That’s the difference between us and them. They die, and that’s it. We die and—”