He worked methodically, sculpting the land around each car like a baker icing a cake, careful not to damage anything but firm enough to make sure no one could just drive away without serious effort—or better yet, a tow truck.
By the time the last furrow was cut, the field looked like a patchwork trap. The cars sat awkwardly in the middle of it all—boxed in by dirt, each one surrounded by loose, unstable soil too deep for a sedan or SUV to drive through without getting stuck.
Eli killed the engine, climbed down, and began seeding the rest of the field like any other workday. One seed at a time, working row by row. That’s when he heard the first voice. “HEY! HEY! WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?”
He turned slowly. A woman in high-heeled boots and a leather jacket was stomping across the field, fuming. Her face was red, her arms flailing with the kind of rage that comes not from injustice—but from inconvenience.