Walter stepped over the caution tape and moved quickly. He dug shallow and uneven holes, just deep enough that the brass would glint under the first layer of soil but not vanish completely. A few here, a few there. He worked methodically, pressing the casings into the dirt, tamping it down with the flat of his boot. The ground was cold and smelled of oil and wet concrete.
Every time a night bird cried out, his pulse jumped. When he was done, he stood at the edge of the pit, breathing hard. His gloves were damp, his shirt clinging to his back. He looked at the disturbed soil, at the faint shine of brass under the moonlight, and whispered to himself, “That’s enough.”