Walked out the back door. He didn’t move fast, but with each step the idea took more shape. He slid the shed door open. The hinges groaned. 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. And 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?