My daughter runs to the garden for her tomatoes. Over her shoulder she tells me I am allowed to see them--though I planted them--if I keep them secret from the neighbor's army of raccoons. I lose sight of her between the rows; a shapeless fear grips my throat; I nearly scream. But I find her beneath a clump of bright red berries--for that's what tomatoes technically are, no?--pulling one down with a pop and handing it to me.
quillbot has a hard time with pronouns, but don't we all these days?