“No, ma’am,” I said, pulling the ugly cap with the plant-man logo on it tighter to my head. “I think he’s making everything just hard enough that I don’t try to take his territory.” Pulse quickening, I pushed Mark’s cart with its pruning shears, fertilizer pellets, and watering system farther down the line. I had known of the elevator, along with the placement of the six emergency exits, the pulls for the fire alarm, and where they kept the doughnuts.

“Men,” she said, rolling her eyes as she sat before her screen again. “Don’t they realize that if we wanted to rule the world, we could?”

I gave her a noncommittal nod and squirted a tiny amount of water into the next plant. I kinda thought we already did.

A tight hum rose over the whirl of the printer and the faint office chatter. It was Jenks, my partner, and he was clearly in a bad mood as he flew out of the boss’s back office and to me. His dragonfly wings were bright red in agitation, and pixy dust sifted from him to make temporary sunbeams. “I’m done with the plants in there,” he said loudly as he landed on the rim of the hanging pot in front of me. He put his hands on his hips to look like a middle-age Peter Pan grown up to be a trashman in his little blue jumpsuit. His wife had even sewn him a matching cap. “All they need is water. Can I help you out here with anything, or can I go back and sleep in the truck?” he added acerbically.

I took the watering canister off me, setting it down to unscrew the top. “I could use a fertilizer pellet,” I prompted, wondering what his problem was.

Grumbling, he flew to the cart and started rummaging. Green twist ties, stakes, and used pH test strips flew everywhere. “Got one,” he said, coming up with a white pellet as large as his head. He dropped it in the canister and it fizzed. It wasn’t a fertilizer pellet but an oxygenator and slime-coat promoter. What’s the point of stealing a fish if it dies in transport?

“Oh my God, Rachel,” Jenks whispered as he landed on my shoulder “It’s polyester. I’m wearing polyester!”

My tension eased as I realized where his bad mood came from. “It’ll be okay.”

“I’m breaking out!” he said, scratching vigorously under his collar. “I can’t wear polyester. Pixies are allergic to polyester. Look. See?” He tilted his head so his blond hair shifted from his neck, but he was too close to focus on. “Welts. And it stinks. I can smell the oil. I’m wearing dead dinosaur. I can’t wear a dead animal. It’s barbaric, Rache,” he pleaded.