Then he waited. The first to arrive was a jogger in sleek athletic wear and wireless earbuds. She moved with confidence, ignoring the faint sign tucked into the hedgerow. As she crossed the mulch line, the sensor clicked.
The mist hit her legs, her shoes, her lower back. She stopped cold. Looked around. Sniffed. Her face twisted, and she pulled her shirt away from her body. Robert, watching from behind the porch curtain, saw her stagger back to the trail, gagging once before sprinting away.
The second was a man in cargo shorts with a DSLR around his neck. He got a full dose across the chest and arms. Robert watched him curse, flailing with his hat, trying to bat the mist away. He stomped back to the road, muttering something about “weird chemical traps.”
By the end of the week, Robert counted a dozen visitors who’d turned tail the moment the ammonia-laced spray hit them. Some shouted. One woman wept. But most just ran—fast, furious, and humiliated.
He didn’t feel proud. Not exactly. But he did feel… effective. And strangely, the vineyard seemed to perk up. It might’ve been the timing. Or the weather. Or maybe that filthy fertilizer still had life left in it. But by the third week, Robert spotted new growth on the eastern rows. Vines that had wilted now clung tighter to the stakes.
The grapes looked firmer. “I’ll be damned,” he muttered, brushing a leaf between his fingers. “This is actually working.” For the first time in months, he let himself believe the vineyard might survive the season. Then came the influencer.
It was a sunny afternoon, and Robert was trimming low branches when he heard the voice—loud, polished, fake. “Hey guys, so we just found this adorable little vineyard off the main trail, and I think it’s gonna make for some gorgeous shots—stay tuned!”
He peeked through the rows. Three people. One held a ring light. Another adjusted a camera. The third—young woman, oversized sunglasses, wide-brimmed hat—was posing against the vines like they were set dressing.
Robert stood and made his way forward. “Hey!” he barked. “You’re not supposed to be here!” The cameraman flinched. The woman didn’t even turn. “We’ll be done in two minutes,” she said breezily. “You should be grateful—we’re giving your place exposure.”
Robert pointed at the mulch line. “That’s not a path. That’s private land. You need to leave.” “Do not raise your voice at me,” the woman snapped, turning around now. “You’re going to regret this.” That’s when the mist hit.