“Yes.”
Jen studied her.
“Okay.”
A loader operator approached.
“Maya.”
“What?”
“You need to see north berm.”
They walked.
A section of compacted earth behind shell storage had slumped.
Not collapsed.
Maybe six feet wide.
Rainwater had cut a narrow channel along the edge.
Maya crouched.
Water.
No visible solids.
But enough to explain conductivity.
Jen took sample.
Maya looked downhill.
Miller Creek was nearly a quarter mile away.
Vegetated buffer.
Good.
Still.
“Close it.”
“We need equipment.”
“Use south loader.”
“It’s scheduled for turning.”
“Compost can wait.”
The operator nodded.
Within thirty minutes, Cedar Creek looked like a construction site.
Sandbags.
Loader.
Temporary diversion.
Sampling.
Documentation.
County environmental office called back.
An inspector would arrive that afternoon.
Maya stood in rain.
Her phone rang again.
Westland Resource Systems.
She ignored.
Then Harbor Point.
She answered.
Elaine Harper had been dead many years.
The current operations director was Luis Ortega.
“Maya.”
“Morning.”
“You stopped intake.”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“Unknown.”
“I’ve got three processors asking.”
“Send to secondary facilities.”
“They cost more.”
“I know.”
“What happened?”
“Containment reading after storm.”
Silence.
“Any discharge?”
“Not confirmed.”
“Are you reporting?”
“Yes.”
Luis exhaled.
“Thank you.”
That mattered.
Cedar Creek had enough history and reputation that it could have delayed telling Harbor Point.
Wait for certainty.
Avoid panic.
Maya knew the temptation.
She also knew what her grandfather said.
Do not make other people’s risk decisions for them by hiding uncertainty.
Luis said:
“Call when you know.”
“I will.”
The county inspector arrived at 1:20.
Young man.
Maybe thirty.
No reverence for Cedar Creek’s history.
Excellent.
His name was Aaron Pike.
He walked the site.
Sampled.
Photographed.
Asked blunt questions.
“Last berm inspection?”
Jen gave date.
“Documented?”
“Yes.”
“Any cracking noted?”
“No.”
“Engineering design age?”
“Seventeen years.”