Chapter 7 - After the Hail

The storm didn’t arrive. It attacked. Hail slammed against the roof in hard, uneven bursts, ricocheting off gutters and scattering across the steps like a handful of thrown marbles. Rebecca pressed her palm to the window, breath tightening. “The garden—” she whispered.

Dave was already out the back door, moving at a speed no man with a knee brace should attempt. “Bins!” he shouted. Sam grabbed the plastic covers from the porch. Rebecca rushed after him, the air thick and cold, each hailstone a sharp sting as it bounced off her shoulders.

The shade garden looked wounded. Leaves that had been full and glossy that morning were now pocked with small, jagged holes. Hostas looked like someone had punched through them with a thumb. Petals from Linda’s azaleas were scattered like confetti at a sad parade. And the seedling— Rebecca couldn’t see it. She sprinted to the potting bench just as Sam slammed the bin down over the fragile sprout, hailstones hammering the plastic like a drumroll.

For a few brutal minutes, all they could do was endure. When the storm finally tapered into icy rain, the quiet felt unnervingly loud. Dave lifted the tarp off the ferns and swore under his breath. “They’ll live,” he murmured, “but they’re gonna look like Swiss cheese for a while.”

Rebecca crouched at the seedling’s pot and gently lifted the bin. Her heart sank. The tiny leaves were damp and trembling… both with three clean holes punched right through them.

Not torn.
Not shredded.
Just small, perfect wounds from falling ice.

“Oh no…” she breathed.

The gate creaked. A postal truck rolled to a stop at the curb, wipers squeaking across a windshield dotted with melting hail. Beverly stepped out, holding a cardboard parcel over her head like a shield. “Good heavens!” she called. “Y’all got hit bad!” She jogged into the yard and froze at the sight of the battered foliage. “Mercy… that storm chewed this place up.”

Sam tried to lighten the moment. “We’ve had better Tuesdays.”

But Rebecca didn’t smile. She traced one of the holes on the seedling’s leaf with her fingertip — a tiny wound in a plant that had already survived too much.

Dave knelt beside her, voice softening. “Hey. Look at the center.” She leaned closer. There — unbelievably — a new pale spear still stood upright, untouched by the storm. Bruised around the edges, maybe, but alive.

Rebecca let out a shaky breath. Beverly crouched down too, shielding them with the package. “Honey, anything that small that survives hail? You ain’t got a weak one here.”

Sam brushed hail from his hair. “She’s right. It’s stubborn.”

Dave nodded. “Storm gave it holes, sure. Didn’t take its fight.”

Rebecca sat back, wet hair clinging to her cheek, but something in her chest steadied.

Around them, leaves dripped. Petals lay scattered. The garden looked beaten, dented, changed. But still standing.

“We’ll fix what we can,” she said quietly.

Beverly smiled. “And the rest? It’ll fix itself.”

Sam touched her shoulder. “Piece by piece.”

Dave added, “Plant by plant.”

Rebecca looked at the seedling — wounded, determined, alive. “Hope by hope,” she whispered.