Page 22 of Omega’s Fold

They don’t. That’s the problem.

NIMBY bingo: 1. water table 2. traffic 3. “character of the area” 4. schools 5. “we’ve always”

You forgot “my grandfather”

“My grandfather would be turning in his grave” — every public meeting, every time

yokels

Lads don’t put that in writing

Fine. Rural stakeholders. Lol.

I can hear the shake of the pumps from the table that I am sitting at. Wyatt Briggs, I don’t particularly care about, but I like Caleb and Matthew, especially Matthew. He’s a great kid.

I don’t know why Briggs is still here. He would have been made some kind of offer that mitigated the damage done. I know that much. He can’t have taken it.

Or maybe he’s one of those crazy misers who everyone only finds out is a multi-millionaire the moment that he dies.

But something, sitting at the edge of my memory, has started scratching. Not about the channel. About the project.

There was something about groundwater. There was a subsection on dewatering during foundation works, and I remember — or I think I remember — that the projected drawdown cone extended somewhat further than the original modeling had assumed.

I remember reading that line and thinking, that’ll be an issue for legal to deal with.

I wonder what the radius is. I’m about to go searching for the documentation when the mudroom door opens.

My hand is already closing the laptop before I have thought about it.

Briggs has taken his boots off in the mudroom. He is in socks, and his shirt is damp at the collarbones with sweat, and his hair is flattened where a cap has been on it and a line of dust runs along the inside of his forearm from wrist to elbow.

He smells, very faintly, of horse and diesel.

“The internet is up,” I say.

He gives me a nod, not looking me in the eye and walks through the kitchen on his way to somewhere else in the house.

I hear him go up the stairs. A door shuts somewhere above.

Fine. Weirdo.

I work. I work through the afternoon. I answer emails and I draft a list of questions for the waterfront project team. The Wi-Fi is excellent. I put my headphones on and listen to music while I work. I don’t know how anyone manages without internet. I need my Spotify. I’d be surprised if Briggs knows what it is.

I hear the car turning into the yard at three forty, and a few minutes later Matthew comes up the porch steps two at a time, the way he does, and the screen door bangs behind him. Caleb is quieter, a step behind. Matthew is already talking before he is all the way into the kitchen.

“Julian. Julian. Is it working? I can see the satellite!”

“We’re live.” I turn the laptop so he can see that I’ve got Chrome open. “Full signal.”

“Oh wow,” he says. Then, “I have homework but you need to show me how to connect on Mom’s old computer.”

“I will do that,” I say then I reconsider. “If your brother says it’s fine.” I have no idea what Wyatt Briggs’s stance is on internet use for eight-year-olds. Probably better if I ask although I would bet good money that my only response is a grunt. Maybe one word if I’m lucky.

“Homework first,” Caleb says.

He goes. Caleb follows, stopping to pour himself a glass of water at the sink. He drinks it in one go and sets the glass down. Then he leaves the kitchen without saying anything and I hear him go up the stairs after his brother.

The screen door opens again and Donna steps in.