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“I wouldn’t use the word data; I’d say qualitative observation.”
“The numbers tell you what’s happening,” Ridge says, “and the description shit fills in the gaps?”
“The observations will often guide the numbers. Nature changes seasonally, daily, even. Water levels fluctuate; populations drift. For example, one dead fish means nothing, but a hundred of them all point in the same direction. Qualitative, because we can’t quantify the problem, but we can see something is wrong.”
“This feels difficult,” I admit.
But Della smiles kindly. “Nature often is.”
6
DELLA
It’s an hour later when I sit in a squat and take a moment to observe just how the wetlands move on their own time, and it’s perhaps one of my favorite things about it.
Water slips between stems of sawgrass with a patient inevitability. A dragonfly lands on the tip of a reed, its wings glimmering in the afternoon light, before it takes flight again with an urgency that suggests it forgot it had somewhere to be.
Behind me, a great egret lets out a low croak, and I turn just in time to see it taking flight, its broad white wings carrying it toward the horizon.
If the Everglades had a heartbeat or pace of life, it would be slow. But that should never be mistaken for weakness. Water can wear down a stone if you give it enough time.
“This patch should still be flowering,” I murmur more to myself than anyone else. The curled-up leaves pass through my fingers, and I mourn its loss.
Sunny appears beside me. His hair looks a reddish blond in the sunlight, his eyes a richer green, and there’s a sharpness to his cheekbones that I can see more clearly because of the shadows they create. “So, they’re still dying even this far down this channel.”
I put my hand to my forehead to shade my eyes as I look up the waterway from the direction we entered. I can see Ridge looking for clues a little farther up the trail. “Yeah. This could be accidental, but it seems too off grid for anything to be leaching through the earth here. So, whatever chemical combo is being used here, it’s successful.”
Sunny touches the leaves of the same plant I am. The side of his hand brushes along the side of mine. It’s an intimate gesture, and I glance at him to see if he felt that too. But his eyes are on our hands.
“This seems to be the last one. If you look over there at the other bank, healthy spikes carry the vibrant blossoms, and the leaves are a glossy green. If we track the water flow, and the range of compromised fauna, we might be able to figure out just where the contaminant is coming from. Because of the pattern of damage, my suspicion is it’s being routinely dumped from the same spot.”
“Fuckers.”
“Is this the kind of boring field work you had in mind when you said it would be an adventure?”
He shrugs, stands, and offers me his hand. But once I’m standing next to him, he doesn’t immediately let go. Instead, he runs his thumb over the back of my hand, and the effect is a complicated mix of soothing and arousing. “It’s not high adrenaline, but it’s high stakes. I live here and never moved because I can’t imagine there being a more beautiful and unusual place to live. Hate the idea that someone might get away with poisoning it for some reason.”
I blow out a breath as Sunny lets go of my hand. “Like I said, sometimes it starts as an accident. Like the case the Erin Brockovich movie is based on. PG&E were using hexavalent chromium for, like, a decade before they realized high levels of chromium-6 had reached nearby wells. They didn’t set out to leak it, but it happened, and then, the information was hidden from the public. Or sometimes someone wants to throw up a couple of hundred condos.”
Sunny puts his hands on his hips. “Condos? Here?”
I gesture in the direction of the water. “Why not? Pretty view. But before you know it, there are more cars, so the roads need to be widened. And then come all the things people need to live their lives. Doctors, schools, shops. And all you need to prove to make it happen is that the area is no longer a thriving ecosystem.”
Sunny reaches for the end of my braid and tugs on it gently. “I know that, after today, I’ll keep an eye on what is right under my nose. Ridge and I spend a lot of time fishing out here. Maren, our president’s old lady, runs an airboat company. You taught me today that we should all pay a bit more attention to what’s going on around us. And I’m definitely gonna take some time on one of those fishing trips to learn more of the birds around here.”
“You two might want to come and take a look at this,” Ridge says when he joins us.
We follow him back toward our starting point, but then, he takes us left, a little farther into the undergrowth, where the ground has been trampled.
“Right here, looks like someone was standing around.” There is an empty water bottle tangled in some weeds. But also, cigarette butts on the ground.
“Well, that’s fucked up,” Sunny says. “They could have started a fire.”
“People are pigs,” I add.
Ridge is more measured. “From the different types of cigarettes, I suggest there were three of them. But it could be someone out here fishing. Or teenagers hiding from their parents. Doesn’t mean it’s your mystery polluters.”
There’s an energy drink can. A discarded length of fishing line wrapped around a mangrove root. Every single item in isolation has an innocent explanation.
