I'd saved her number from the parking lot conversation. In late May, I texted her a photo of the three nests and told her about the thirteen fledglings.
She said she'd started keeping a count. Since our parking lot conversation, she'd stopped forty-one customers — people she'd caught before they reached their cars. For every one she stopped, she estimated eight or nine drove away with the kits already in their back seat.
She was still employed, barely. Her manager had written her up once for "unauthorized customer communications." She'd kept going anyway. She said she'd rather be written up than keep ringing up kits she knew were dangerous.
She also said something I keep thinking about: "The birds that die in those nests — nobody counts them. Nobody files a report. The parents just leave and don't come back, and the homeowner thinks it didn't work out this year, and next year they buy another kit."
The invisibility of the failure is what makes it so persistent. There's no feedback mechanism. No moment of accountability. The kit gets hung, the nest fails, and everyone moves on — including, next spring, to another cute kit at the garden center.