The boy clung to the porch rail, waiting.

"Did you bring watermelons, Grampa?" he asked when the man had gotten out of the truck.

"Not today, Scooter," the man said.  "Not until next year.  A man bought the last ones this morning."

The boy's smile melted.  He could almost taste sweet watermelon juice against his tongue.  "When will next year be?" he asked.

"When the rain has come and gone and the flowers have come and gone and everything's dry again.  That's when watermelons grow."