Some took selfies in front of the vines. One even picked a bunch of grapes like they were wildflowers. Robert tried to stay calm. He wasn’t a man quick to anger. But each time he found a broken branch or saw a stick pulled from the trellis and tossed aside, something in him tensed.
He’d worked hard to keep things neat, even if the vines weren’t perfect. One morning, he stood with a watering can in hand and stared at the prints left in the dirt. Deep and careless. The vines on either side were drooping—tugged, possibly stepped on.