"Thank you, Mayor Harper." He taps the tablet. A projection screen descends behind him, displaying aerial photos of PineHollow surrounded by digital overlays. "I want to show you what's possible."
The images shift. Animated mockups of sleek buildings. Manicured green spaces. Retail corridors with names like "Heritage Plaza" and "Farmstead Commons."
"Pine Hollow has tremendous potential," Webb says. "But potential needs investment. Infrastructure. The kind of capital that creates jobs and stable tax revenue."
He clicks through charts. Projected employment numbers. Revenue estimates. All wrapped in language about preserving character and honoring history.
"We're not here to erase what you've built," he says smoothly. "We're here to enhance it. Give your children reasons to stay. Give your businesses room to grow."
Mrs. Shay nods. So does Tom Kowalski.
Webb smiles. "Of course, this requires partnership. Property acquisition at fair market rates. Zoning updates to allow mixed-use development. Some changes, yes. But changes that benefit everyone."
He doesn't mention which properties. Doesn't name the bistro or the seed barn or Farmer Hank's fields explicitly.
He doesn't have to.
"I'm happy to answer questions," Webb finishes. "And I'm committed to transparent dialogue throughout this process."
Hands shoot up. Webb fields them with practiced ease. Yes, local businesses would have first right of refusal on retail space. Yes, environmental impact studies would be conducted. Yes, community input would be valued.
Every answer sounds reasonable.
That's what makes it dangerous.
Mayor Elsie thanks him. Calls the next speaker. Then another. A small business owner who likes the retail potential. A parent worried about her kids leaving for lack of opportunity.
The arguments stack up. Reasonable. Pragmatic. Slow erosion disguised as progress.
Then Elsie looks at me. "Ivy, you wanted to share some thoughts?"
My mouth goes dry.
Rogan's hand finds mine under the seats. Brief squeeze. Then gone.
I stand. Walk to the front. Face the crowd.
All these people I've known forever. Who watched me grow up. Who supported my seed program when it was just me and a folding table at the farmer's market.
"I'm not good at speeches," I start. My voice sounds thin. I clear my throat. Try again. "I'd rather be in the dirt, honestly. That's where I'm comfortable. Where things make sense."
Nervous laughter.
I grip my notebook. Don't open it. The bullet points feel wrong now. Too scripted.
"When I left for university, I thought I was done with Pine Hollow," I say. "Thought the future was somewhere bigger. Somewhere with better funding and fancier labs and people who took agriculture seriously."
Farmer Hank shifts in his seat.
"But I came back. Because I realized something." I meet his eyes. Mrs. Shay's. The Kowalskis'. "The work that matters most is the work that takes time. That builds slowly. That requires you to stay when it gets hard."
My hands are shaking. I press them flat against my thighs.
"Mr. Webb talks about investment and infrastructure. Growth." I gesture toward the projection screen, now blank. "Those aren't bad things. We do need jobs. We need our kids to have futures here."
Heads nod.
"But growth isn't just about buildings and revenue," I continue. "It's about what survives. What adapts. What you can pass down."
