The tapestry of tributaries ran towards the window sill. Her nose pressed against the pane. Ten doughy digits tapped.
“Dada all wet,” she said.
His donkey jacket, sodden and heavy from the rain. There was only so much the digger could do. His hands would do the rest. The garden would be ready for her birthday in the spring.
The root of an old tree. Swollen in the dirt. His calloused hands reached forward. Clutch, turn, lift, drag. It was out.
“Another half an hour and I’ll call it a night.”
Her toddled bounce would greet his weariness.