“I wrote the proposal.”
Dean leaned down slightly so their faces were closer.
“Then here’s a business lesson for you.”
Noah said nothing.
Dean continued.
“People who actually know what they’re doing don’t send children to negotiate waste contracts.”
Something behind Noah tightened.
Not because Dean had called him a child.
He was one.
Because the sentence turned every month of work into a costume.
The soil tests.
The notebooks.
The trips to the county extension office.
The Saturdays measuring compost temperatures.
The nights he sat at the kitchen table after his younger sister went to sleep, comparing landfill fees against hauling costs while his father thought he was doing algebra homework.
Noah reached for his clipboard.
Dean moved first.
His boot struck an empty blue plastic crate.
The crate skidded across the wet concrete and stopped inches from Noah’s boots.
“Go home.”
A few workers laughed again.
Not everyone.
An older truck driver standing beside a white refrigerated box truck had stopped smiling.
Noah recognized him.
Walt Keegan.
Sixty-one.
Gray mustache.
Thick orange rain jacket.
He had hauled fishmeal from Harbor Point for years.
Noah had spoken to him twice on the phone.
Dean had not noticed.
Noah bent down.
He picked up the clipboard.
One sheet had torn at the corner.
He brushed oyster-shell dust from it.
Then looked at Dean.
“I still need an answer.”
Dean stared.
“You just got one.”
“No.”
“You told me what you think of me.”
“I asked whether Harbor Point wants to reduce disposal costs.”
Something in Dean’s expression shifted.
The workers became quieter.
Noah continued.
“Your current mixed organic disposal averages ninety-four dollars a ton after transport.”
Dean’s face hardened.
“Where did you get that number?”
Noah did not answer.
“You send about thirty-two tons a week during the heavy season.”
“That’s none of your business.”
“Your vendors complain about the fees.”
“They talk.”
Dean stepped closer.
“You’ve been calling my vendors?”
“I asked what they pay to get rid of material.”
“You have no right—”
“They answered.”
Dean pointed toward the harbor entrance.
“Leave.”
Noah’s pulse hammered.
He could feel everyone watching.
This was the moment his father had warned him about in every argument they had ever had.
Knowing numbers did not mean adults would listen.
Being right did not mean you controlled the room.
Noah looked toward Walt.
The old trucker slowly pushed away from his door.
Dean followed Noah’s gaze.
“What?”
Walt adjusted his cap.
“Kid talked to me.”
Dean’s mouth tightened.
“About?”
“Hauling.”
Dean stared.
Walt shrugged.
“I was curious.”
“You don’t work for him.”
“Didn’t say I did.”
Another driver near the loading dock stepped forward.
Then another.
Dean looked around.
Noah’s heart started beating even harder, but for a different reason.
He had not been sure they would come.
He had called eight independent drivers.
Five had said maybe.
Three had said no.
One had laughed.
Walt had said:
“If you get the market to release the material, I can get it to your place cheaper than they’re paying now.”
Noah had asked why.
Walt answered: