Dirt paths, angry tree roots. Things that catch your feet, hurl you to the ground. Rotting vegetation, musky and hidden. The half-shade of trembling leaves. No sound. Up the path, I follow my father. We never talk. Not here. I look behind me to see if anyone is following. To see if we can get out. Up a slight hill, down again, the green darkness increasing. Built into a large oak, attached to it like a tumor, is the shed and in it a man with an unpronounceable name. On an orange crate in front of him, honey. Honey in the comb. Oozing sweet honey in square wooden frames. My father says something to him and he grunts a reply. His voice is as twisted as the tree roots, full of darkness and gravel. I cling to my father's shorts, but he ignores me because he likes telling this man how wonderful his honey is–how we put it on a plate and it seeps out from under the wooden frame and we spread the comb itself on our toast, chewy and sweet. My father pays the man whose fingers are short and wide like chopped off carrots. His nails are hooves–bent and black and hard. He gives my father his change and looks at me, screaming crows flying from his eyes. His heavy eyebrows thunder clouds of darkness and wind. I push my face into my father's shorts and he laughs and takes my hand, holding the honey in the other one. When the path descends, I open my eyes. No one says why this place is called Devil's Hopyard and I don't ask. I have seen him and know his name.