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And it has nothing to do with the fact that each one of these babies has a sticker on the side of their pot that says they’re sold for a whopping $59.00 a piece.
Truly.
Even though I rescue a surplus of plants that I couldn’t possibly take care of by myself, and even though a bitch be broke, I refuse to sell any of them. I either give them away to people in my local plant-lovers groups on Facebook who can’t afford new ones, or I use them to trade for cuttings of other gardeners’ plants that I’ve been dying to collect. I had no idea this whole plant-obsessed world existed just months ago, and now I can’t imagine living anywhere else. A world where someone will happily snip off a stem from one of their babies just so another plant-lover can propagate it—grow it into a whole new full-sized beauty.
But these guys will not be part of my giveaway stash. No way. They’ll live long and prosper in my cactus corner, a super-bright, full-sun area of my yard that gets zero shade, so nothing else can survive in that spot. At least nothing I’ve attempted to keep alive.
I’ve got the second golden barrel just high enough I can finally wrap my other arm around the bucket, when suddenly a loud clang—something hard hitting the side of the metal dumpster—reverberates around me, making me scream it startles me so badly.
“What the fuck!” I shout, losing my balance and falling forward, but thankfully I catch myself with my free hand, gripping the black pot in a football hold between my bicep and my side.
“Ma’am, this is private property. You’re currently trespassing, and I’m gonna have to ask you to leave,” comes a deep male voice.
My body trembles, but I don’t know if it’s with rage or from my precarious position. I manage to force out, “Dumpster diving isn’t illegal in our state.” And it’s not. I did a ton of research after I found that lady on TikTok.
There’s a sound… a slight chuckle? But then he reiterates, “You are correct, ma’am. But the dumpster is on private property, on which you are trespassing at the moment, seeing as it is past business hours.”
My legs start to shake in their locked position, and my arm holding my body up from tumbling ass-over-head is screaming, but I’ll be damned if I’m letting go of my prize. Through gritted teeth, I state, “There isn’t a No Trespassing sign on the dumpster,” remembering that’s what my research told me to verify before diving in.
“While that may be true, there are No Trespassing signs posted along the back of the building, stating this is private property. And the dumpster is on that property. So again, I’m asking you to leave, or I’ll have to call the police.” There is an unmistakable smile in the voice, letting me know the sound before most likely was a chuckle, which makes me frown.
What the fuck is so funny?
What kind of sadistic bastard laughs at the idea of sending an innocent plant rescuer to jail? Has he no humanity? Has he no soul?
Of course not. He works for the company that allows perfectly healthy plants to be just tossed in the trash, then threatens to call the cops on someone just trying to save the poor things.
But I make nice, because the last thing I need is to be locked up in some jail cell, when I have dumpster babies to repot and water before they’re too far gone.
“Fine. I’m getting out. It’s just going to take a sec, because you startled me, and I’ve gotta figure out how to get not only myself but this golden barrel out of—” The rest of my words are cut off by my own scream…
Of fright.
Of shock.
Of dread.
And then of unmatched pain.
Chapter Two
SIENNA
So much pain. And in so many places.
But mostly, my poor hand.
Just as I was explaining to the tattletale that I needed to figure out how to get out of the dumpster with the cactus in tow, I had gathered enough waning strength to attempt to push myself off the pallet with my bracing hand. But the movement upset not only the stuff I was standing on, but also the apparently super-dry root system of the cactus. So dry the soil had pulled away from the sides of its plastic bucket, allowing the whole thing to slip right out of the pot. And being the person—nay, idiot—I am, with the instincts to try to catch whatever I drop—even things with three-inch-long sharp-as-fuck needles covering its entire exterior—I may manage to make it upright, but not for long, as the golden barrel lands spikes-down in the open palm of my garden-glove-covered hand. And anyone who knows anything about gardening gloves knows they don’t do anything to protect one’s hands against cactus thorns.
