“Temperature?”
“One hundred twelve.”
“Where?”
“Center.”
“Edges?”
“One-oh-two and ninety-eight.”
“Moisture?”
“Maybe sixty percent.”
“Maybe?”
Noah pulled notebook.
She smiled slightly.
“Good.”
They checked.
The pile was too wet.
Not catastrophic.
Correctable.
More sawdust.
More turning.
Smaller pile.
Dr. Morales looked toward Noah.
“Your first batch will probably be ugly.”
Noah frowned.
“It’s day one.”
“Exactly.”
“Real systems have day ones.”
“You want me to lie?”
“No.”
She smiled.
“Good.”
The first ten days nearly killed the idea.
Rain came.
Then more.
A drain clogged.
One windrow cooled below target.
Gus’s wood chips arrived too coarse.
A load of fish material contained plastic gloves and packing straps because a vendor failed to separate properly.
Noah stood in the rain helping adults sort contamination under Dr. Morales’s supervision.
He was furious.
“This ruins everything.”
Luke shook his head.
“No.”
“It ruins this load.”
“Different.”
The vendor received a warning.
The second load was clean.
The shell pile grew faster than Noah expected.
Crushing shells required equipment Cedar Creek did not own.
A contractor’s quote was three times Noah’s budget.
He sat on a feed bucket and stared at numbers for an hour.
Sophie wandered over.
“You look dead.”
“I’m calculating.”
“Same.”
Noah ignored her.
She picked up an oyster shell.
“What if people want these?”
“They do.”
“For gardens?”
“Crushed.”
“What about whole?”
Noah looked.
Landscapers used shells decoratively in some coastal areas.
Paths.
Drainage.
Chicken keepers sometimes sought calcium products, though shells needed proper cleaning and processing.
Noah called landscape companies.
Two were interested in washed shell.
Not enough.
But something.
Then the smell complaint arrived.
Anonymous.
County environmental health came to inspect.
Luke read the notice twice.
Noah knew immediately who he suspected.
“Dean.”
Luke looked at him.
“You don’t know.”
“He hates this.”
“That is not evidence.”
“He threatened vendors.”
“Still not evidence.”
Noah slammed the notice onto table.
Luke’s voice sharpened.
“Hey.”
Noah looked away.
“Do not become the person who decides first and proves second.”
The irony would later stay with him.
At thirteen, he hated it.
The inspector arrived the following morning.
A woman named Cynthia Bell.
Forties.
No nonsense.