The phone vibrated.

WE FOUND THEM.
SEND THE ADDRESS.

It’s a thirty-minute drive. During the last ten minutes, rocks skip upward and clang
the underside of Naut and Astro’s car. Three wicker baskets jumble against each other in the
back seat. We turn right, then curve left, and park straight ahead.

Trees open to behold a sweeping view of Douglas County Lake and the heat of the day wafts over us once we step out of the car. A Great Blue Heron pumps its wings in vigor to emerge from the waters. The bird tilts right to glide alongside the lake. Any other day we would’ve followed it to admire its hunting habits—today we had our own hunting to attend to.

FIFTEEN FEET PAST THE LOADING DOCK DUE EAST. IT’S TUCKED AGAINST THE BANK OF
THE LAKE BEHIND THE INFORMATION PANEL.

A fermented smell grows in strength as we approach the large billboard plastered with city notices. The stench means we’re close. Freshly fallen fruit and twigs squish and snap under our boots. Before we begin gathering, we inspect the tree. Leaves, the size of our hands, grow on thin, green stems. There are three different leaf shapes. One leaf holds two shapes: one half of it forms like a spade, the other looks like a Ficus carica. The other two leaf figures are either entirely spade-shaped or Ficus-shaped.

“We finally found a Morus tree!”

Long, dark, cylinder-shaped berries break away from their vines at the slightest touch. No matter how gently we treat them, bright magenta juice stains the palms of our hands.

Long, dark, cylinder-shaped berries break away from their vines at the slightest touch. No matter how gently we treat them, bright magenta juice stains the palms of our hands.

“But we have nature.” Naut points to large boulders that sit in a row, blocking the entrance of the sandbar to vehicles.

With great efforts, we roll one of the rocks to the base of the tree under the lowest branch. We climb cautiously with grippy boots and gardening gloves.

“Slim pickings over here.”

“Here too.”

WE BARELY FILLED A SINGLE BASKET… WE’LL SAVE SOME FOR YOU.

A large purple bowl holds mulberries in a pool of cool water and a dash of apple cider vinegar. Forty-five minutes later, we transfer them to a strainer and rinse. They taste amazing. We debate which, of the many ideas, to designate this miniscule harvest. A small batch of pies? Folded into waffle batter? Reduced into simple syrup?

By sundown, only purple fingers remain as evidence that we had encountered this elusive berry.