"It means viable," he counters gently. "And viability is what keeps communities alive."
"Communities stay alive because they have a purpose beyond growth for growth's sake. Food security is a purpose.Heritage preservation is a purpose. What purpose does another development serve besides profit?"
The room goes very quiet.
Marcus's smile doesn't falter. "Ms. Hale, I respect your passion. But passion doesn't pay mortgages. It doesn't fund schools or fix roads. Development brings resources that idealism can't."
"Development also brings homogenization. It erases the things that make a place worth living in."
"Or it creates new value," he says. "New opportunities. A sustainable future built on economic strength rather than nostalgia."
I want to argue. Want to list every reason why he's wrong, why his glossy brochures hide the cost, why places like this die when they forget what they are.
But the room is watching. And half of them are already leaning toward his side.
I sit down. My heart pounds. My hands shake around my notebook.
The meeting continues. More questions, more smooth answers. By the end, Marcus has the crowd nodding along.
As people file out, he catches my eye and gestures me over.
I don't want to go. But refusing feels like cowardice.
He extends a hand. "Ms. Hale. I appreciate your candor."
I shake his hand. His grip is firm, professional.
"I meant what I said," I tell him.
"I know. And I respect it." He pulls a business card from his pocket. "I'd like to sit down with you privately. Talk through your concerns. I think we might have more common ground than you realize."
"I doubt that."
"Humor me. One conversation. If I can't address your concerns, you lose an hour. If I can, maybe we find a way forward that works for everyone."
I take the card. It's heavy stock, embossed lettering. The kind of card that costs more than it should.
"I'm not interested in being won over," I say.
"I'm not asking you to be. I'm asking you to listen." His expression is earnest, almost kind. "The farmers I've spoken to are desperate, Ms. Hale. They need options. I'm offering them one. If you have a better alternative, I'd genuinely like to hear it."
I pocket the card. "I'll think about it."
"That's all I ask."
He turns to greet another resident. I walk toward the door, past clusters of people debating the merits of his pitch, past Hank and Miller talking in low voices, past Mayor Elsie shaking her head.
Rogan falls into step beside me as I push through the exit.
"That was something," he says.
"He's good."
"Too good."
We reach the parking lot. The night air is cool, sharp with the promise of frost. I brace against my truck and gander at the community center, at the warm light spilling from its windows, at the people still inside weighing futures they shouldn't have to choose between.
"He offered me a meeting," I say.
