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poured down drains, into the grass out behind shops, or down the ravines where many of the locals tipped the rest of their junk. Although used oil collection services already existed, they were targeted mainly toward auto shops and not individuals. And then there was the fact that most of the area around Swivel was rural. Far easier to burn the used oil, or dump it on a roller chain, or use it to keep the dust down on the driveway than it was to lug it to a collection center. Furthermore, because the services operated under the auspices of government-driven environmental protection programs, the populace was generally leery and unwilling to participate. For her part, Carolyn figured if she couldn’t hector the locals into environmental consciousness, perhaps she could bribe them.
    And so she overcame the skeptics with an old-fashioned tool: cash. Carolyn paid by the gallon, at a rate matching the established services, plus a modest sign-up bonus. She also picked up the oil on site, free of charge. At launch, she financed the program out of her own pocket, dipping into her severance package reserves—at that time still in an appreciated state. And as with her hopes for the water tower, Carolyn was confident that in the long term she would be able to fund the program through outside sources.
    Frankly, it took off better than she could have expected. Once word got out that the weird lady in the Subaru was paying good money for bad oil, the phone rang steadily. What she had envisioned as a few pints per month quickly multiplied. Soon her apartment above Reverend Gary’s Church of the Roaring Lamb was stacked with containers and plastic jugs of all shapes and sizes.
    Meg, who had tried to talk Carolyn out of the project from the get-go, offered to take the oil off her hands. “Just dump it in withmine,” said Meg. “Every time I crush a car, I have to drain the fluids, and all the oil goes in a container out back. Eventually I haul it to the collection center in Clearwater.”
    But Carolyn had refused. In fact, she insisted on collecting Meg’s waste oil as well, explaining that it would be easier to get funding support if she could document increased collections. Soon the apartment living room was full, and Carolyn was stacking overflow in the bedroom. The joists were beginning to creak. At one point she considered taking the oil to the Clearwater collection site, but then while researching environmental remediation grants she wound up on a Department of Natural Resources website and discovered that she was in violation of at least sixteen different hazardous waste statutes pertaining to collection, storage, and transportation of toxic chemicals. Prison time was not out of the question, and she became badly spooked at the idea of someone from the collection center making inquiries.
    And in a crowning setback, the real estate roller coaster was currently on a downslope, further accelerating the shrinkage of her financial reserves.
    It was in this troubled state of mind that she was returning from her rounds with yet another batch of full buckets in the back of her Subaru the day she drove past Harley Jackson’s place, looked up at the old water tower, and had an epiphany.
    DESPITE THE REVOCATION of state restoration funds, and the waning state of her severance package, Carolyn had maintained her lease with Harley, holding out hope that the governor might reverse his decision, or that she might locate a sympathetic benefactor. This was also a matter of frank stubbornness: after all the public declarationsshe’d made, there was no way she’d give those goobers the satisfaction of seeing her sacrifice the tower for scrap. Just as she had refused Meg’s offer to relieve her of the excess oil, Carolyn couldn’t stand the idea of bailing on the lease. Carolyn’s biggest obstacle wasn’t dwindling funds or lack of storage space. It was pride. She’d be damned if she’d