My husband had spent years warning me never to set foot on that farm. So after he passed away and the lawyer handed me the key, saying that from now on the place belonged to me, I was ready to sell it right away and put everything behind me. But before making my final decision, I still wanted to see it once for myself. When the door opened, I finally understood why, all those years, he had never wanted me to set foot there.

“Appears,” I repeated. “Yes.”

I clicked the remote again.

The complete geological overlay illuminated the map in reds and golds and contour lines.

This time even Harrison leaned forward.

“As you can see,” I continued, “the primary reserve lies beneath the western section, the same section your proposal treated as negligible.”

Silence.

Then Allan said, too quickly, “These private surveys are not necessarily reliable.”

The connecting door opened.

“Actually,” said a new voice, “they’re quite solid.”

Every head turned.

Thomas Reeves, CEO of Western Plains Energy, entered the room with Maren Bell beside him and two geologists in company jackets behind them. If Harrison Wells represented old extraction muscle, Reeves looked like the version that had gone to Stanford, hired environmental consultants, and understood the modern value of appearing civilized while pursuing the same underground substance. Younger than Harrison by a decade, immaculate, controlled, not uncharismatic.

Robert half rose from his chair. “What is this?”

“This,” I said, finally taking my seat, “is what happens when everyone in the room gets access to the full set of facts.”

Harrison turned on Robert with visible anger.