He supposed that was as fine a way as any for a man to admit he might piss himself. There was a mild, approving raise of his brows. He had to wonder the pretenses Mr. Mortland had been brought here upon – did he think they were, what, mushroom hunting?

Mehmet’s eyes widened when … what’s his face? shoved Mortland toward his no doubt soon to be grisly end. He scraped the tip of his shovel in the dirt, testing if that motion could indeed mobilize into a killing blow.

Unsurprisingly, it didn’t. Mortland was like a twig – some fragile little tree that could be snapped with hands alone. He still felt bad about those poplars that hadn’t made it.

“I-uh, I’m not in the business of… harvesting...” he gave Mortland a once-over through the corner of his eyes before looking back to Presumed Murderer, “... seeds, sir. I just plant them.”

Sowing seed … sowing seed … he squinted. Some desperate-to-be-a-grandfather type had used that turn of phrase once.