The bags cannot be thrown away, and it will take centuries for the radioactive isotopes to decay in storage facilities built by contractors like Horiguchi.
Back home in Tokyo, Horiguchi wasn't sure what to expect about working in the disaster zone.
Old Naraha had everything she needed: a bank, a hospital, places to shop, post office, train stations.
New Naraha has nice, new buildings but is missing a crucial piece of the puzzle: spirituality.
He says it won't work, sarcastically noting there are more teachers than children at the school.
"Younger generations are not coming back," he said.
"They're completely different -- completely," said Yukiko Endo, 53.
"All of the places from my memories, they've all disappeared." Endo grew up in Naraha but has lived in Iwaki an hour south ever since the earthquake, when a speaker the next day told everyone they had to leave.
There's beer on tap, smoke in the air, bottles of sake on the wall, and a kitchen turning out Japanese pub food.
But it is substantially oversized for the classes, down 83 percent since the earthquake. To fill space, the junior high school rents one side of the building to a combined elementary school, bringing total enrollment in the school building to 111 students.
A dosimeter off the campus parking lot illuminates with a reading of 0.099 microsieverts/hour on the evening of Feb.
Millions of the sturdy bags dot open fields and beaches across Naraha and other evacuation towns -- the area's new and useless crop.
Decontamination workers have stuffed them with the top 2 inches of soil with high concentrations of cesium from the nuclear plant, tying up dirt for the most part, but also leaves, brush and acorns.