I moved closer.
A handwritten laminated card hung above it.
EAST ZONE ODOR CONTROL — 1:3 MIX.
Thomas stared.
“That’s wrong.”
Nathan looked at him.
“How wrong?”
“The manufacturer calls for one ounce per three gallons.”
I looked at the card.
One to three.
No units.
Someone had simplified instructions badly.
Dr. Reeves went still.
Nathan’s voice hardened.
“So what have they been mixing?”
Thomas pulled out his phone.
“I don’t know.”
“Find out.”
The vendor technician arrived thirty-five minutes later.
A young man named Luis.
Nervous.
Cooperative.
He explained that when he took over the account eight months earlier, the mixing card was already there.
He had been preparing concentrate at roughly one part solution to three parts water.
Far stronger than intended.
Thomas closed his eyes.
Nathan looked dangerous for half a second.
Then I said:
“Don’t decide yet.”
He looked at me.
“Excuse me?”
“It could be
