"Pick the ripest one," the old woman said, "and be sure you mean it."
Ed meant it. Ed had meant it every night since the funeral, meant it with his teeth shut and his fists in his coat. So he walked the rows in the dark and he put his hand on the biggest gourd in that field and he meant it.
The vine moved first. Just a twitch, the way a sleeper turns over. Then the whole patch shrugged, and something came up out of the good black dirt that was too tall to be a man and too patient to be an animal, and it turned its great seamed face toward the county road where the boys had parked.
Ed opened his mouth to take it back.
You can't take it back. That's the whole arrangement.
