The Soil pH

The problem with the Pacific Northwest wasn't the rain; it was the rot. Everything here wanted to consume everything else. Moss ate the roofs, ferns ate the trails, and the silence ate your thoughts.

Hazel "Green" O’Connor liked it that way.

She sat on the wrap-around porch of her cabin, a mug of nettle tea steaming in her hands. The air was thick with mist, a heavy grey blanket that muffled the world. Around her, the forest breathed. Literally. The creeping ivy on the railing twitched, a tendril reaching out to stroke her pinky finger like a lonely pet.

"Down," Hazel whispered. The vine retracted sullenly.

She looked across the hundred yards of mud and bramble that separated her cabin from the only other structure for ten miles. It had been empty for two years. Now, it was occupied by a man who was currently trying to dig a hole in a root system older than the constitution.

His name was Dante. She knew this because she had seen the mail—*Dante Rinaldi*—delivered to the roadside box yesterday.

He was wearing a charcoal suit that probably cost more than Hazel’s truck, and a pair of Gucci loafers that were currently being swallowed by the muck. He was sweating, cursing, and stabbing a shovel into the ground with the grace of a toddler. Next to him lay a long, heavy black duffel bag.

Hazel took a sip of tea. He was obviously burying guns. Or money. Or a very small person.

Dante hit a rock. The shovel clang echoed through the trees. He threw the tool down and wiped his forehead with a silk handkerchief, looking around paranoidly.

Hazel sighed. She stood up and walked to the edge of her porch railing.

"You know," she called out, her voice cutting through the mist.

Dante spun around, his hand flying inside his jacket. He pulled a gun—a sleek, matte-black pistol—faster than Hazel expected. He aimed it right at her chest.

Hazel didn't flinch. She just raised an eyebrow. "If you're trying to hide something permanent, the soil pH there is too acidic."

Dante stared at her. He lowered the gun an inch, confusion warring with aggression on his sharp, handsome face. "Excuse me?"

"Acidic soil," Hazel repeated, gesturing with her mug. "It preserves bone. If you want decomposition, you need an alkaline environment. Or a marsh. There’s a bog about a half-mile east. Lots of peat."

Dante looked at the ground, then back at the girl in the oversized knitted sweater. "Are you giving me body disposal advice?"

"I'm giving you gardening advice," Hazel corrected. "You're hacking at a Douglas Fir root ball. You'll never get deep enough. And you're ruining your shoes."

Dante looked down at his ruined loafers. He looked back at the bag, then holstered his weapon. The tension didn't leave his shoulders, though. He looked like a wolf that had been cornered in a petting zoo—dangerous, but deeply confused.

"I'm burying tools," he lied smoothly. "For... renovation."

"Right," Hazel said dryly. "Renovation. Well, neighbor, try not to shoot any of the wildlife. They hold grudges."

She turned and went back inside, flicking her fingers. Behind her, a thick root surfaced from the mud near Dante’s foot, tripping him. She heard him curse as he face-planted into the slush.

Hazel smiled into her tea. City boys.