He filled the tank with a blend of pond water, diluted ammonia, and a dash of Marianne’s old compost concentrate. The smell hit like a slap. It wasn’t toxic—but it clung. It settled into fabric, into hair, under fingernails. He tested it on an old glove first. The stench lingered after two washes.
Perfect. He rerouted the system to target just the outer edge of the vineyard—where the path narrowed and the tourists most often strayed. The sensors were discreet, barely visible among the stakes and vines. He’d tucked them low, under a canopy of leaves, the spray arcing upward in a fine mist.