Maeve spotted me, and her arm shot straight up. She'd twisted her hair into a bun and stabbed it through with what looked like a wooden spoon, but it might've been a pen. She wore a bright blue cardigan with little bread loaves embroidered on the collar. She'd snagged me an empty seat in the second row, saving it with her purse.
She waved so hard the sleeve of her cardigan nearly whacked her neighbor in the face. Maeve's enthusiasm had the same fierce warmth as Chance, like loyalty was something that ran in their family.
"Tash, over here!" Her voice sliced right through the chatter. A half-dozen heads turned to look.
I ducked my chin and squeezed past, careful not to jostle the old man with an oxygen tank parked in the aisle. The folder stayed glued to my chest. I caught a whiff of Maeve's perfume. A hit of vanilla under the coffee stink.
She patted the seat. I settled in beside her. The mayor, middle-aged with a too-tight tie and a mustache that could sweep chimneys, kept twiddling his pen and glancing at the clock.
Maeve leaned in, her voice pitched for just me. "You ready? I brought cookies if you need a sugar hit to brace you up."
I snorted, but the nerves didn't let go.
The SkyArc rep swept in at the front, laptop tucked under one arm. He wore a pressed blue shirt, no jacket, but the way he smiled made it look like he'd invented the word "polished." His SkyArc badge gleamed. Regional representative, etched in gold. The name was William Hanlon.
He shook hands with the council chair, winked at the mayor, and fired up the projector. The room went dim at the front, the screen flickering to life with the SkyArc logo. A river, blue and perfect, with a stylized sun rising behind it.
William's assistant, a woman with hair slicked into a bun so tight it might've required superglue, clicked through digital slides. William squared his shoulders, took center stage, and let the silence sizzle.
"Thank you all for coming tonight. I'm William Hanlon, representing SkyArc's commitment to the future of Laurel Gap." He outlined each syllable like a salesman pitching a state fair.
He started off with all the usual fanfare. Projected jobs. Tax benefits. Seasonal tourism spikes. "Laurel Gap is a jewel," he said. "With the right partners, it'llshine for generations to come." He waved at the screen behind him, where computer mock-ups made the town look like a ski resort town. Plazas, fountains, and rows of storefronts too tidy to be real.
He promised upgrades for schools. Better roads. Grants for local sports teams and youth programs. At every "growth" buzzword, a few of the business owners in the front row leaned in, eyes glittering with hope. The lady who ran the consignment shop scribbled notes so fast her pen nearly split. The mayor's posture unwound, little by little.
But along the side benches, others didn't buy it. I caught the glance from the retired postmaster, squinting, jaw set. An elderly couple in flannel watched the screen as if it might go up in flames before the end of the night.
William went on and on. His smile hovered just shy of smug. He acted like every improvement was as simple as flipping a switch.
I chewed the inside of my cheek, counting to ten so I wouldn't roll my eyes right out of my head. Maeve's foot tapped the linoleum in silent protest.
When he launched into the "environmental responsibility" slide, my head nearly exploded. He gestured to a line graph, all arrows up and progress,and rattled off the phrase "sustainable, nature-first development" until it lost any meaning.
Twenty minutes later, he finished with a flourish. "SkyArc is honored to preserve Laurel Gap's beauty for the next generation."
It was slick, I'll give him that. People applauded, more than half the room. The business crowd led the way, but a lot of others joined in, hesitant and slow. The mayor beamed.
Public comment came next. The mayor explained the rules. We had three minutes each, state your name, be civil, no grandstanding. My throat locked up. I watched the first three speakers. A small business guy, the soccer coach, and, a retired teacher. The coach begged for better fencing around the high school. The teacher asked about affordable housing. William nodded graciously at each, jotting "action items" like he was already on the job.
I was next. Maeve nudged me at the precise second my name was called.
The walk to the podium took forever and also no time at all. My knees warred with my brain. The world shrank to harsh light, humming fans, and a hundred pairs of eyes.
I licked my lips. "Hi. I'm Natasha Winters. Water Resources Conservation for the NRCS." My voicewobbled. Ugh, microphone, public, nightmare. I gripped the data folder and tried not to look like I wanted to climb under the table.
Maeve caught my eye and winked. I took a breath. On the exhale, the scientist part of my brain took over. "I want to talk about the river," I said.
A hush rippled through the room. No more shuffling. Even the mayor sat forward.
I opened the folder, hands steadier now. "You talk about sustainable development. But two years ago, SkyArc put in a retail strip in Blount county, outside Maryville, just a handful of miles away from Laurel Gap. They promised the same things. Jobs, growth, responsible construction."
I snapped open the photo. It showed a creek, once crystal-clear, now tea-brown and choked with run-off. "A year after opening. These are pictures of the samples." I angled the image so the crowd could see the silted water and collapsed banks. "The amphibian population crashed. And the hellbenders, a keystone species, vanished."
Speaking as quickly and clearly as I could, I rattled off the stats. How the turbidity tripled after heavy rain. How every spring, fertilizer burned holes in the algae shelf. I brought receipts, both numbers and comparison shots from before and after the mall.Each one made the ground beneath my feet more solid.
Most everyone glanced around the room. Some of the business crowd looked uneasy. The postmaster guy nodded, lips pressed thin.
I pressed on. "The company says it'll protect waterways, but here's what happens. The buffer zones shrink. The creeks get ripped open. Polluted runoff poisons the ecosystem, piece by piece. That's not just science, it's reality. Look at the pictures."
