Read the passage below, written for this question.

I had arranged the seed trays in straight rows before anyone arrived for the garden's open morning. From the gate, the garden looked ready: labels upright, paths swept, the little table set with paper cups. I stood beside it with the list of jobs folded in my pocket. For once, I thought, nothing had been left to chance.

Then the wind lifted the corner of the cover over the young plants. It snapped and rattled above them like a flag that had forgotten which way to point. I ran across the path, catching at the loose edge, but it tugged in my hands. The neat rows I had been admiring suddenly seemed very small.

A gust sent the labels skittering across the soil. One spun past my shoe; another vanished beneath the bench. I heard people coming through the gate, their voices bright and close. I wanted to call out that everything was under control. Instead, I held the cover down with one hand and pointed to the labels with the other. My instructions came out shorter than I had planned.

The first visitors gathered around the beds. One of them crouched to help me find a label. Someone else took the far corner of the cover without being asked. The wind still worried at it, but there were more hands now. I unfolded my list. The paper shook, and so did I, though no one seemed to notice.

When the last visitors left, the cover was tied in place and the labels were back in their rows. I looked at the garden again. It was not as tidy as it had been that morning. It looked better: not untouched, but held together by all of us.