Joe looks at the frozen strip of land like it’s already been looted.
JOE:
“I can’t build a garden in Canada, Nelly. Not a real one. And even if I did—what’s the point?”
Nelly turns to him.
NELLY:
“What do you mean?”
Joe lets out a dry laugh.
JOE:
“I mean it would get stolen. All of it. Bit by bit. Tomatoes gone overnight. Herbs ripped out by the roots. Someone hopping the fence at dawn telling themselves they deserve it more.”
He gestures to the neighborhood.
JOE (cont’d):
“You grow food here, you’re not a gardener—you’re a donor. Unofficial food bank with no locks.”
Nelly studies his face.
NELLY:
“That sounds like mistrust.”
JOE:
“That’s hunger.”
He exhales slowly.
JOE (cont’d):
“My family home in Croatia—completely different. You plant something, it’s still there in the morning. Neighbors respect it. They’ve got their own gardens. No one’s circling your tomatoes like vultures.”
He shakes his head.
JOE:
“Here? People are desperate. Canada’s slipping into a famine and everyone’s pretending it’s just a ‘cost-of-living issue.’ Ten million people going to food banks, Nelly. Of course it gets stolen. Hunger doesn’t ask permission.”
A pause.
NELLY:
“So you don’t even feel safe growing food.”
JOE:
“Safe? No. What I’d feel is watched.”
He looks around again.
JOE (cont’d):
“You fence it, you’re selfish. You don’t fence it, it’s gone. Either way, you’re the bad guy.”
He scoffs.
JOE:
“And while people are stealing tomatoes to survive, you’ve got Rockefeller stooges in white coats telling everyone health comes from a prescription.”
Nelly sighs.
NELLY:
“Doctors.”
JOE:
“Quacks. Too many of them. They treat symptoms and invoice despair.”
He softens, just a little.
JOE (cont’d):
“A garden is supposed to give you dignity. Here, it turns you into a target.”
Silence settles.
NELLY:
“And Croatia?”
Joe’s voice drops.
JOE:
“In Croatia, growing food meant security. Here, it just reminds you how fragile everything’s become.”