We took the long way around Building C because Naomi wanted to show me a garden she'd found behind the maintenance shed, which was either a real garden she genuinely liked or the scenic route toward wherever the party was happening. Given that Naomi Love could not lie about the weather without her ears turning pink, I was betting on option two.
"It's right here," she said, pulling me around the corner of the shed. "See?"
It was a garden. An actual garden. Three raised beds with herbs and some tomatoes going leggy in the California sun, a hand-painted sign that read OBSIDIAN COMMUNITY PLOT in crooked letters, and a single bench occupied by a cat that clearly owned the place.
"Naomi."
"What?"
"This is a real garden."
"I told you it was a real garden."
"I thought the garden was a metaphor."
