Etched in dried salt beneath a mop bucket, only legible under moonlight:
“Day 41. The thorns don’t speak but they’re communicating. The vibrations work by pressure and pull. The frequency bypasses the ears but can be felt directly in your teeth. Marco’s left ear bleeds now when he faces due north. Maria threw up twice after her shift. There’s a bloom of algae now where her vomit hit the pavement.
The orbs aren’t growing. They’re unclenching. Like a muscle stretching after cramp. The new slime that comes out links metal and plastic to goo.
Came across a cavity beneath the thorn tower—it smelled of turned earth and burnt copper. A container for the city’s poisons. Its replacing the toxins with something else from the land.
The orbs come and go. Burst spontaneously overnight. We’ve stopped mopping the slime. Each dawn the parasite leaves a light residue. We don’t care to sweep it away. Supervisors don’t notice. We’ve stopped pretending to care what they see.”
— L. (visible only under UV; smears on touch)