How many times had she rescued it? She'd lost count. It seemed that every year since she'd gotten it, it had dwindled down to nothing and she'd had to give it a serious haircut to get it going again. It would, almost overnight, grow lush and full only to start dwindling and drooping again with no warning. How often she had looked at it, remembering, or drawing comfort from its upright eager vines that never seemed to quit. Poor Charlie, she thought. How many more times can I hack away at you like this and expect you to live? Again they slow down, then stop, look about, they hear the water slapping the bank from the Great Lake again, but can not see it. The breeze from the lake is picking up, as the window is rolled down they can feel the breeze, there is a chill to it, so they roll it up a bit more. Trees are swaying.

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