Robert sat there for what felt like an hour, the light shifting across the floor as the day dragged on. Taffy barked once in the backyard, then went silent. Robert thought about selling the land—letting it go. But the idea made his stomach churn.
And then, a thought crept in. Soft, sinister, quietly useful. His eyes drifted to the shed window. Beyond it stood the water tank. The one he hadn’t touched in months. It used to feed a line of compost-soaked fertilizer directly into the irrigation system.
Marianne had used it sparingly—she always said the mix was strong. Too strong. But it worked wonders when diluted. She’d once joked that the smell alone could scare pests off a mile away.
Robert stood up.
He walked out the back door, his boots crunching against the dirt. He didn’t move fast, but with each step, the idea took more shape. He slid open the shed door, the hinges creaking in protest. The smell hit him first—sharp, acrid, like overripe garbage and rust.
He opened the cap to the tank and winced. Stale pond water. Rotten leaves. Liquid fertilizer, so potent it had separated into layers. Ammonia. Thick, throat-stinging ammonia. He stared into it, eyes watering. Then, for the first time in days, he smiled.
They wanted to walk through his vineyard like it was a park? Fine. Let them leave smelling like it.