The shed on Beanpole Lane still had its hasp undone, which meant someone had been in today and not locked up properly. Rafi Singh knew because he tried the latch on the way past every single evening — thumb to pinkie, one. "Three," he whispered. That was how many Scarlet Emperor seeds were left in the world, according to the packet Flo had shaken at his ear after supper. "I heard them," she said. She tapped her yogurt pot twice. "This is Gerald. He says the soil behind the compost is ready." Rafi had promised Flo half. Dad had promised Rafi the whole row. Nobody had asked the seeds.