He was in deep trouble.
The sick kid taken away for tests โ that image kept looping. Doctors in hazmat suits, all sealed up like something nuclear.
Cold sweats, clammy hands. His stomach had felt wrong for hours.
He hadnโt thought much about their arrangement lately. It had become routine. Mundane.
Each month, approve the blast cycle irrespective of the weather. Take the readings, but adjust where necessary.
Heโd checked the operator processes. He knew it wasnโt standard. But she told him it was just how things were done on that site.
And the late night visits had finally persuaded him, if there was any lingering doubt.
Living in a steel shipping container twelve weeks at a time was hard enough. Recently divorced made it almost unbearable. The days were long, the nights longer still.
So yes, heโd โadjustedโ a few measurements. The blasting had gone ahead. And, for a while, so had the visits.
He didnโt think too hard about the noise. Or the dust. Or the complaints from downriver.
He told himself it wasnโt doing any real harm.
But now the rumours were everywhere.
It wasnโt just dust. It was runoff. Into the drinking water. Not the piped stuff they enjoyed onsite, but the creek โ the one the locals swum in.
He felt sick. Couldnโt sleep. Couldnโt look at the forecast without shaking.
The next blast was only days away. And she โ his boss, the one who no longer visited โ had already told management it would go ahead.
Just like the others before. On his meter readings. On his say-so.
Those consultants, the ones who came and asked too many questions and upset the barrel. They must have known. Or at least suspected.
Why else would they pour over the logs? Why audit the weather station code?
Nathan, the weak man heโd always been, approved the next blast. Spineless, as his wife wouldโve said.
But this time he did something else.
From a fake account behind a secure VPN, he sent a message:
Better Software UK โ what you suspected is still going on. Please help!