Fine. Let them leave smelling like it. He wouldn’t need to trap anyone. Wouldn’t need confrontation. No signs. No yelling. Just irrigation. Just a little gardening. Just water. He’d feed the mixture through the pressure pump, just as they’d always done during dry spells.
But instead of pure water, he’d thin the tank’s contents enough to move through the pipes. It wouldn’t harm the vines—he’d check that, of course. But it would stick. To shoes. To socks. To pants and backpacks. And God help the ones who came wearing white.