Rope.

Zip Ties.

Plastic draping.

Industrial Solvent.

Bleach.

Gloves.

Duct Tape.

Check, check, and check.

Martha tucks her list in her purse and pulls her cap lower, covering her face. With a push, the cart squeaks toward the checkout.

"Whoa!" The clerk glances at her items as she places them on the winding black belt, his adam's apple bobbing. "Pretty intense selection. Looks like something off of 20/20."

She smiles thinly, ensuring the cap still covered half her face, and points to the plastic tubing, black metal stakes, and thin envelopes of seeds. "Prepping for the tomato beds. Never too early to start planning."

He grins, unruly red curls falling into his eyes. "Yes, ma'am."

She pays cash and heads out into the afternoon sunshine. She stops at the green metal trash can and carefully shreds the recipe, sprinkling it in like salt.

She hums as she loads the car and sings along on the way home, tapping in time to the music. The day is crisp, a bright winter light, and the green hint of spring is in the air. The perfect day to set a plan in motion.

She bustles about the house and is in the garage when the aluminum door rolls up, and Jim, her husband of 17 years, drives in. He slams the door as he gets out. A whiff of alcohol trails behind him.

"What are you doing now?" Even with the space heater going, she can feel the heat radiating off him. Like always, Jim is not happy.

She keeps doing her task, mixing the soils together. "Prepping the tomato beds."

Jim frowns, glowering at her. "It's February."

She smiles, all teeth, "I'm growing them from seed this year." She points to her work bench and seed warming setup. She bends and continues filling the small plastic trays with dark, moist soil.

He grimaces, rolling his eyes. "You still have the canned tomatoes from last year. We're up to our goddamn eyeballs in it." He braces his hands on his hips. "Did you start dinner yet?"

"Already in the oven. Ready in twenty," she says, pressing the soil deep into the container. A heaviness sits between them, sharp and visceral. Something has to give.

She waits until Jim's heavy footfalls fade and the door to the house slams, the sound echoing. She smiles, for real this time. One round for me.

She precisely opens one tomato envelope. Beefsteak, red and delicious.

She plucks out a tiny seed, and drops it in the shallow indentation, and carefully covering it with soil.

In 7 weeks, the plant would have grown large enough to be outside, ready to face the elements.

"Pity," she thought, filling the last tray.

She was 100% positive that one of them wouldn't be alive to see the harvest. She continues in her task until the four trays are full and sorted neatly in the warmer.

She removed her gloves and swept up the fallen dirt into a small mound. Soon, everything was in its proper place.

Phase 1 complete.

She dusts off her hands and starts inside, shoulders back. After all, Jim's waiting.