“I should have told full board sooner.”
Marcus nodded.
No drama.
Just record.
The agricultural finance specialist, Karen Wu, asked:
“Does Westland know about containment?”
“Not yet.”
“You must disclose.”
“I know.”
“Offer may change.”
“Yes.”
Harbor representative Luis Ortega leaned back.
“If Cedar Creek sells control, what happens to Harbor contracts?”
“Westland assumes organics operations.”
“Rates?”
“Existing contracts honored for three years.”
“After?”
“Market.”
Luis frowned.
Employee representative asked:
“What happens to us?”
Maya opened offer terms.
“Employment protections eighteen months.”
“Eighteen months is nothing.”
“It is something.”
“Then they consolidate.”
“Possibly.”
“Where?”
“Some functions Aberdeen.”
“Meaning layoffs.”
“Possibly.”
The room grew sharper.
Maya refused to soften.
“I will not tell you there is no risk.”
Marcus stared.
“What do you want?”
Maya looked at everyone.
“I want us to survive without pretending control itself is survival.”
Karen said:
“That is not an answer.”
“No.”
“It isn’t.”
The outside finance specialist tapped table.
“Let’s separate issues.”
“First: liquidity.”
“Second: capital repair.”
“Third: strategic ownership.”
“Do not let an urgent repair force a permanent control decision if there are other financing options.”
Maya felt something loosen.
Exactly.
Urgency compresses thinking.
Westland benefited if Cedar Creek felt cornered.
Karen continued:
“Can we finance containment?”
“Bank?”
“Equipment note?”
“Emergency environmental loan?”
“Harbor contribution because facility supports their diversion?”
Luis immediately said:
“Maybe.”
Everyone looked.
He continued.
“Harbor saves money through Cedar Creek.”
“If intake capacity disappears, our costs rise.”
“We may fund infrastructure in exchange for contract extension.”
Marcus nodded slowly.
Maya had not considered.
That bothered her.
Good.
The board formed a forty-eight-hour working group.
No vote on sale.
Maya drove home exhausted.
At her house, her sixteen-year-old son Ben sat at the kitchen counter eating cereal at nine at night.
Teenagers are agricultural pests with Wi-Fi.
He looked up.
“You look dead.”
“Family tradition.”
“What happened?”
“Work.”
“That means bad.”
“Complicated.”
He poured another bowl.
Maya took the cereal box away.
“That’s enough.”
“I’m growing.”
“You’re hollow.”
“Exactly.”
She put it back.
Ben watched.
“Are we selling farm?”
Maya froze.