“How much could we actually earn?”
Noah immediately reached.
Luke stopped him.
“Fine.”
“Numbers allowed.”
Noah opened page eleven.
The early model was conservative.
Cedar Creek would not charge vendor disposal fees during the first sixty-day trial.
The initial value came from receiving free raw materials and replacing purchased fertilizer and lime on certain fields.
After validated compost batches and full permitting, they could negotiate tipping fees lower than landfill disposal.
If they received twenty tons a week at forty dollars per ton, that was eight hundred dollars.
Not fortune.
But then they could sell finished screened compost.
Noah estimated seventy to ninety dollars per cubic yard retail depending on quality and market.
Luke stared.
“Where did you get that?”
“Called six landscape suppliers.”
“Of course you did.”
“Dr. Morales says my yields are too optimistic.”
“Good.”
“She says first-year product may not sell.”
“Also good.”
Noah glared.
Luke smiled.
“I mean good that somebody is challenging the numbers.”
Noah understood.
Luke studied the page.
Then another.
“Transport?”
“Backhaul rates.”
“Labor?”
“I counted Gus.”
“Gus is not free.”
“He said first ten loads are.”
“That doesn’t mean labor is free forever.”
“I know.”
“Insurance?”
Noah hesitated.
Luke raised eyebrow.
“I have a placeholder.”
Luke smiled.
“Meaning no.”
“I don’t know number.”
“Good.”
“Now we found something.”
They worked until midnight.
Not as father rescuing son.
Not son rescuing father.
Together.
By morning, Noah’s profit projection had dropped thirty-eight percent.
He was strangely happy.
The plan felt more real.
At Harbor Point, Dean Pritchard was having a much worse morning.
The departure of five vendors from the mixed disposal stream should not have mattered much.
Shell waste was bulky, not especially heavy.
Fish trimmings from two small processors represented only part of daily volume.
But Dean called Coastal Recovery Services before seven.
The owner, Bruce Pritchard, answered.
Dean’s brother-in-law.
“What happened?”
Dean closed his office door.
“Carter kid.”
“What kid?”
“The farm project.”
Silence.
Bruce knew.
Everybody connected to the disposal contract knew by then.
“How much did they divert?”
“Four loads.”
“Four?”
“Two shell.”
“That’s not our stream yet.”
“Two organics.”
Bruce swore.
Dean looked through the window toward loading dock.
“We can shut it down.”
“How?”
“Permit.”
“County issued it.”
“Complain about smell.”
“Day one?”
“Runoff.”
“You have evidence?”
“No.”
Bruce was quiet.
Then:
“Do not panic.”
Dean lowered his voice.
“If vendors realize they can avoid the disposal surcharge—”
“They still owe market handling fees.”
“Not the waste fee.”
“How many know?”