His father was inside the greenhouse, harvesting the tomatoes. He had six of them in a white plastic bowl. Marty went in, pulling the door shut behind him.

          “Six are edible, not eight.”

          Marty looked at the six in the bowl. Then at the two still on the plants. There was no discernible difference between them.

          “Your soldering iron’s fixed,” Marty said, holding it out towards his father.

          “It wasn’t.” The tone was accusatory.

          Marty knew what was coming and tried to avert it.

          “No, it wasn’t, but I fixed it for you.”

          “No, it wasn’t, but I fixed it for you,” his father mimicked. Without warning, he slapped the soldering iron out of Marty’s hand. Marty yelped.

          The soldering iron crashed into the tomato plants, bending one of them over in the middle. The soldering iron crashed to the path, skittering over the paving slabs. The top of the tomato plant thumped to the soil. One of the unpicked red tomatoes detached itself and rolled across the greenhouse floor, bumping into the parsley pots and stopping.

          “Now look what you’ve done,” Marty’s father said. As he spoke, he raised his right foot and stamped down hard on the soldering iron. A thousand minute crunches signaled its demise. “Get out of my greenhouse before you cause any more damage.”

          Marty turned and left the greenhouse. He tried to close the door, but his father followed him out. Marty pretended not to notice and started walking towards the house. He had walked four steps when his father spoke.

          “And where do you think you’re going?”

          Resigned to the inevitable, Marty turned to face his father.

          “To my room.”