“But whatever’s growing around it is doing really well,” I said, looking down from my small back porch onto the prolific thicket around the base of the stunted rose.
“What do they call these things, anyway,” Tom said. “You know, these plants that just grow when you don’t want them to?”
“Weeds?” I asked.
“No,” he said. “Well, yes. Weeds. But there’s another word. Scavengers, maybe?”
I furrowed my brow. Then the word came to me. “Volunteers?”
“Yes,” he said. “Volunteers. I knew it had a lot of syllables.”