Salem’s POV
Mrs Pollock is at the door again, wanting to know when I will chop down my nasty diseased tree. She is quite certain that it will infect her expensive plants next door. From the ferocity of her vent I know this isn't the first time she's had this conversation. Likely she's been telling her friends for a couple of weeks and finally has just the right combination of accumulated anger and tacit support to come to me. I listen without interruption until she's just glaring, hands on hips. I can almost see steam from those red cheeks. I turn to fetch a pen and paper, I want to write it down this time. In all caps I scrawl "corkscrew hazel, google it," and hand it over with a weak smile that hides my urge to hit her hard. That tree is the joy of my garden, its twigs hang in ringlets.
