Screenplay

Written by

Liana Marie Sive

© 2025 Liana Marie Sive

All Rights Reserved

Pattern Films

Darkness. A click. A lamp flickers on.

The wall.

A corkboard covers one entire wall of the small trailer. It's not decorated - it's consumed. Newspaper clippings. Government forms. Photographs with faces circled. Permit applications. A map of New Mexico with colored pins marking locations. Red string connecting some pins. Handwritten index cards with numbers, dates, questions.

On a shelf below the board: an old Civil Defense Geiger counter. Yellowed plastic. Dust in the seams. A strip of tape on it reads: ROSA.

At the center of everything: a framed letter. Official government seal. The words CLAIM DENIED visible even from across the room. A case number stamped in red: #1638.

Below the letter, a photograph. A woman in her sixties. The glass is cracked - an old break, never repaired. The crack runs directly through her face.

And below that - something half-visible. Words scratched out. Rewritten. Scratched out again. We can't quite read them.

GIL PADILLA (50s) stands in front of the wall, studying it. He's wearing yesterday's clothes. Coffee cup in hand - cold, forgotten.

He touches the photograph.

Case 1638.

He turns to the map. Traces a line between two pins with his

finger - then lets it drift, following the base of the mountain range. The baseline. Measures the distance with a worn ruler.

Writes on an index card: 16.38 miles.

Writes on another card: BASELINE = WIND PATH. Pins it beneath the miles.

Pins it to the board.

Steps back. Studies the whole thing.

Forty-three people. Let's see.

He picks up a marker. Writes on a fresh card:

1638 ÷ 43 =

He stops. Puts down the marker.

Division -

He doesn't finish. Puts the card in his pocket.

A faint tremor. Barely perceptible. A pushpin snaps loose - plink - and an index card slides off.

Gil watches it fall. Picks it up. Re-pins it without expression.

His phone buzzes. He ignores it.

It buzzes again.

He glances at it:

Reminder: Your installation is tomorrow at 10 AM.

He silences the phone.

Looks back at the wall.

I'm still here, Mom. Still counting.

He turns off the lamp.

Darkness.

But in the darkness, we can still see the faint glow of streetlight through the blinds catching the string on the wall. The pattern. Waiting.

Gil stands before the wall. The same wall. Five years of additional material.

He's looking at a printout of the news interview. Destiny's face, frozen mid-sentence.

He unpins it. Puts it in a drawer.

Looks at the wall.

Forty-three votes. Don't talk about the pattern. Just... do the

job.

He picks up a fresh index card. Writes:

FOR BEING MAYOR: 1. Don't mention 1-6-3-8 2. Don't mention the

podcast 3. Don't mention Mom 4. Be boring 5. Win by being boring

He pins it to the wall.

Stares at it.

Boring.

He doesn't sound convinced.

Gil's truck on the road. Old Ford. Rust spots. Reliable.

The landscape is huge. Empty. Beautiful in a way that makes humans feel small.

Gil drives with the window down. No radio. Just wind and engine.

On the seat beside him: the binder. Thick. Tabs visible.

On the dashboard: a photograph taped to the sun visor. Rosa Elena Padilla. His mother. The same photo from the wall.

He glances at it.

Forty-three votes, Mom. Wish me luck.

The photograph doesn't respond.

He drives.

Gil's truck on the road. Old Ford. Rust spots.

The landscape opens up. High desert. Yucca and chamisa. Rolling terrain stretching toward mountains - the Manzanos, blue-gray in the distance.

Wind. Always wind. Dust devils spin across empty fields.

It comes down off the Manzanos and rides the baseline like a river. The wind doesn't just blow here - it delivers.

Small town. Not dying, but not thriving. The kind of place that exists because it always has.

A Desert Freeze. A hardware store. A laundromat. A church with a marquee that reads: "GOD ANSWERS KNEE-MAIL."

Older buildings are adobe - thick walls, rounded corners, the color of the earth. Newer buildings are cinder block. The clash tells the town's history: generations here, then money arrived, then the money built cheap.

A water tower reads: AGUAVERDE - EST. 1923

Green water. The name is a memory now. Or a prayer.

Town Hall: two-story, 1970s brown brick. American flag hanging limp.

Gil parks. Gets out. Binder under arm.

He looks at the building.

Forty-three votes. Here we go.

He walks in.

The room is small. Wood-paneled walls. Fluorescent lights that buzz slightly. Folding chairs for the public, mostly empty. A raised dais for the council.

At the center of the dais: WADE SUTTER (50s). Good suit - not expensive, but well-maintained. The kind of handsome that comes from confidence more than genetics. He's been running this room for twelve years and everyone knows it.

Flanking Wade: four COUNCIL MEMBERS. They have the look of people who showed up because someone had to.

At the staff table: SANDRA WALSH (40s). Town manager. The person who actually knows where the bodies are buried, metaphorically speaking. She has a legal pad and a pen and the expression of someone who has seen many installations and expects nothing from this one.

ANGLE ON: SANDRA'S LEGAL PAD. ELECTION RESULTS. THE NUMBER WRITTEN

there, clear: 42.

The shot holds for one second.

Scattered in the folding chairs: a REPORTER from the local paper (young, bored), an ELDERLY COUPLE (here for the air conditioning), and DOLORES VEGA (60s), Town Clerk and Election Supervisor - thirty-two years in the same office, longer than anyone else in the building. She's knitting something indeterminate and watching everything.

Gil stands at the front of the room. Binder under arm.

Wade bangs the gavel.

This special session of the Aguaverde Town Council is called to order.

We are gathered to administer the oath of office to the winner of last

month's special mayoral election.

He pauses. Looks at his notes. The pause is theatrical.

Mr. Gilbert Padilla received forty-three votes in the special

election, representing a plurality of ballots cast.

ANGLE ON: SANDRA. A MICRO-HESITATION. SHE GLANCES AT HER LEGAL PAD - AT

the 42 - then back at Wade. Says nothing.

ANGLE ON: DOLORES. SHE LOOKS UP FROM HER KNITTING. HER EYES FIND

Sandra's legal pad. Then Gil. Then back to her needles.

She's smiling. Slightly.

How many total votes were cast?

Forty-three.

Forty-three votes. I'm aware.

Scattered, uncomfortable laughter.

So he got... all of them?

All forty-three, yes.

How is that possible?

Low turnout. The election was held on a Tuesday in April. During a

thunderstorm.

Technically, the lowest turnout in town history. The previous record

was the 1987 water board election, which had fifty-one votes.

So we're making history.

Forty-three votes' worth of history.

The town charter requires that special election results be certified

regardless of turnout, provided the election was properly noticed and

conducted. It was. Mr. Padilla won. And so.

He gestures.

Mr. Padilla. Please approach.

Gil walks to the dais. His boots are loud on the wooden floor.

Raise your right hand.

Gil raises his left hand. Realizes. Switches.

Do you, Gilbert Padilla, solemnly swear to faithfully execute the

duties of Mayor of Aguaverde, to uphold the constitution of the State

of New Mexico and the charter of this town, and to serve the citizens

of this community to the best of your ability, so help you God?

I do.

Then by the authority vested in me as Council President under Section

2.4 of the town charter, I hereby declare you Mayor of Aguaverde.

He doesn't extend his hand.

Instead, he slides a manila folder across the dais.

Your welcome packet. Meeting schedules, contact information, parking

validation procedures. Sandra can answer any questions about

day-to-day operations.

Thank you. I'll try not to let my forty-three constituents down.

He picks up the folder. Doesn't open it.

The next regular council meeting is Thursday at seven PM. Agenda items

must be submitted by Tuesday at five. I'd recommend reviewing the

procedures manual before then. Section four covers speaking

privileges. Section seven covers motions and voting. Section twelve

covers -

I've read the procedures manual.

Have you.

A beat. Wade glances at the reporter. Then back at Gil.

Well. I'm sure the council looks forward to your... perspective.

Though I'd suggest keeping the agenda focused on municipal matters.

Roads. Drainage. Zoning. The things people actually voted for.

The room is quiet. Everyone understands what he's not saying.

You can quote that. "Council President welcomes new mayor, encourages

focus on local issues." That's the story.

The reporter writes it down. Gil watches.

The nickname is never spoken. It doesn't have to be. The containment is already complete.

Twice. Also the charter, the municipal code, the budget documents

going back to 2018, and the council minutes from the past three years.

Silence.

That's... thorough.

I like to be prepared.

For what?

Gil doesn't answer.

He opens his binder. Flips to a tabbed section. Pulls out a single sheet

of paper.

I'd like to submit an agenda item for Thursday's meeting.

Already?

A resolution requesting water quality testing data from the state

Environment Department. Specifically, any testing conducted within ten

miles of Aguaverde related to injection well operations.

The room shifts. Something in the air changes.

That's... an unusual first request.

There are fourteen households on Oak Street reporting brown water and

foundation damage. I'd like to know why.

Those are separate issues. Water quality and foundation damage

aren't -

Maybe. Maybe not. That's what testing would tell us.

Injection well regulation is a state matter. The town doesn't have

jurisdiction.

I'm not asking for jurisdiction. I'm asking for information.

Wade looks at him. Really looks at him. The way you look at something

you thought was harmless and now aren't sure.

We'll add it to the agenda.

Thank you.

Is there anything else?

Not today.

Then this session is adjourned.

He bangs the gavel.

Gil gathers his binder. Walks out.

As he passes Dolores, she looks up from her knitting. Their eyes meet.

She glances at Sandra's legal pad - still visible on the staff table.

Then back at Gil.

Congratulations, Mayor.

Thank you.

Forty-three votes.

That's what they tell me.

She holds his gaze a moment too long. Then goes back to her knitting.

But she's smiling. Slightly.

Gil walks out of the chamber. Sandra catches up, heels clicking on the linoleum.

Mayor Padilla.

Gil.

Gil. Sandra Walsh. Town manager. We spoke on the phone.

I remember.

That was... something.

I submitted an agenda item.

You ambushed Wade with an injection well resolution on your first day.

Is that what I did?

That's what he's going to think you did.

I asked about water quality.

You asked about injection wells. That's not the same thing. Not in

this town.

They stop walking. Sandra looks both ways. Lowers her voice.

Rayborn Energy is the largest employer in the region. They fund the

community health initiative. They sponsor the Little League. They

donate to the volunteer fire department. Half the town works for them

directly or indirectly.

I'm aware.

You know about the aquifer?

Estancia Basin.

There's no backup. No river to tap. No pipeline from somewhere else.

If the aquifer goes bad, the town goes with it. That's not metaphor.

That's hydrology.

I'm aware.

Are you? Because when you ask questions about injection wells, you're

asking questions about Rayborn. And when you ask questions about

Rayborn, people get nervous.

Should they be nervous?

I don't know. That's above my pay grade. But I know that Wade has

been council president for twelve years, and in that time, nobody has

asked the questions you just asked.

Why not?

Because nobody wanted the answers.

I got forty-three votes. How much more difficult can things get?

Sandra almost says something. Stops. Her expression flickers - something

about the number. But she lets it go.

She hands him a key on a plain ring.

Your office. Room 104. The key sticks. Jiggle it left, then right,

then pull while you turn. The coffee maker hasn't worked since

2019. IF YOU NEED ANYTHING, MY OFFICE IS DOWN THE HALL.

And if I need records?

Dolores Vega. Clerk's office. End of the hall. Window six. She handles

all the records, certifications, elections - anything with a stamp goes through her.

The woman with the knitting.

She's been here longer than the building. You noticed.

I notice things.

Sandra looks at him.

I know. I've listened to your podcast.

Gil goes still.

All of it. One hundred and fifty-three episodes. Took me about a

month.

And?

And I think you're either the smartest person who's ever held this

office or the craziest. Possibly both.

Which do you want me to be?

I want you to be careful. Wade plays a long game. He won't confront

you directly. He'll just... make things difficult. Procedures that

take longer than they should. Documents that get lost. Meetings that

get rescheduled.

Death by bureaucracy.

It's effective.

I know. That's how they denied my mother's claim. Not by saying no.

He doesn't finish the sentence.

Sandra is quiet for a moment.

I'm sorry about your mother.

Everyone is.

Is that why you're here? The pattern?

I'm here because forty-three people voted for me.

That's not an answer.

It's the only one I have.

He walks toward his office.

Mayor.

He stops.

The number. 1-6-3-8. Does it mean anything to you here? In Aguaverde?

Gil turns.

Not yet.

He walks away.

Sandra watches him go. She looks down at her legal pad. At the 42

written there.

She crosses it out. Writes 43.

Small. A desk that's older than Gil. A window that looks out on the parking lot. A corkboard on the wall, empty.

Gil enters. Jiggles the key left, right, pulls while turning. The door opens.

He sets down his binder. Looks around.

Opens the desk drawers. Empty except for paper clips, a dried-out pen, and a 1994 calendar.

He takes out his phone. Photographs the room.

From his bag, he pulls: pushpins, red string, a ruler, a black marker, a red marker, a stack of index cards.

He begins.

PASSAGE - MONTAGE:

- Gil pins a map of Aguaverde to the corkboard.

- He marks Oak Street with a red dot.

- He pins the invoice he received in his welcome packet. Something catches his eye. He circles a number: the invoice total. \$16,380.00.

- He pins a yellowed MATERIAL REQUISITION packet: OAK STREET SUBDIVISION - FOUNDATION FILL: 1,638 CUBIC YARDS. Supplier: RED MESA RECLAMATION (RECLAIMED). A box is checked in pen: 'NO CERTIFICATION ON FILE.'

- He pins a printout of injection well permits. Circles another number: PERMIT #2024-1638.

- He sits back. Stares.

- From his bag, he pulls the framed photograph of his mother. Sets it on the desk, facing him.

- He writes on an index card: "COINCIDENCE?"

- Pins it to the board.

- Writes on another card: "DON'T MENTION THE PATTERN."

- Doesn't pin this one. Puts it in his pocket.

MONTAGE.

Gil stands before the corkboard. It's sparse. Nothing like the wall at

home. But it's a start.

A knock at the door.

He turns. Dolores stands in the doorway, knitting in hand.

Settling in?

Trying.

She looks at the corkboard. At the circled numbers.

Interesting decorating choices.

I like to see things.

Most mayors put up pictures of their family. Maybe a calendar. A

plant.

I don't have a plant.

No.

She steps into the room. Looks at the board more closely. Her eyes find

the circled numbers.

Sixteen three eighty. That's an unusual amount for a drainage

invoice.

Is it?

Usually they round. Fifteen thousand. Twenty thousand. Easier for

everyone.

But this one didn't.

No. This one didn't.

She looks at him.

I've been here thirty-seven years, Mayor.

Gil.

Mayor. I've seen a lot of people come through this building. Council

members, managers, mayors. Most of them want the title. The parking

space. The chance to feel important.

And me?

I don't know yet.

She turns to leave.

Dolores.

She stops.

The permit number. 2024-1638. Is that sequential? Or is there a

system?

Permit numbers are assigned by the state. I don't control them.

But you've seen them. For years.

I've seen a lot of things for years.

Have you ever seen that sequence before? One-six-three-eight?

Dolores is still.

Why do you ask?

I notice things.

So I've heard.

She doesn't answer the question. Instead:

If you need records, my window is open until four-thirty. Requests

submitted after that wait until the next business day.

I'll remember that.

Most people don't.

She leaves.

Gil looks at the corkboard.

Pulls the index card from his pocket. "DON'T MENTION THE PATTERN."

He pins it to the board.

Then unpins it.

Puts it back in his pocket.

A window. Small. Sliding glass panel. A slot for documents.

Behind the window: Dolores, back at her station. Knitting resumed.

Gil approaches with a stack of forms. He slides them through the slot.

They don't fit. Too thick.

Fold them.

What?

Lengthwise. Then they fit.

Gil folds. Slides.

Dolores picks them up. Examines each one.

All correspondence between the town and Rayborn Energy, 2020 to

present.

Yes.

That's five hundred pages. Minimum.

I'll read them.

Permit applications for injection wells, same period.

Yes.

That's state jurisdiction. We only have copies of what was filed

locally.

I understand.

Payments to Rayborn contractors, 2020 to present.

Yes.

You want to see how much we've paid them.

I want to see how much we've paid, what we paid for, and who approved

the payments.

That's thorough.

I'm a thorough person.

Dolores looks at the last form.

Council executive session minutes. 2020 to present.

Yes.

Those are confidential.

I'm the mayor.

Mayors don't automatically get executive session minutes. Section 8.4

of the charter. Executive session records are only released by

majority vote of the council or pursuant to a court order.

Then I'll request a council vote.

That requires a motion. Which requires agenda submission. Which closes

Tuesday at five. It's currently Friday at three forty-seven.

Then I'll submit it Tuesday.

And the council will vote Thursday.

And if they say no?

Then you don't get the minutes.

What's in the minutes that requires a vote?

I wouldn't know. They're confidential.

She stamps the first three forms. RECEIVED. RECEIVED. RECEIVED.

She sets aside the fourth.

Fifteen business days for the first three. The fourth requires a

council vote before I can process it.

Fifteen business days. The policy says five.

The policy says five. Legal review adds ten.

Legal review? For correspondence?

For everything involving Rayborn.

Why?

Because the town attorney advised it.

Who's the town attorney?

Gerald Foster. Wade appointed him in 2019.

Wade appointed the town attorney.

The council president has appointment authority under Section 3.2.

So Wade controls what records get released.

The town attorney advises on legal review. The council president

appoints the town attorney. I just stamp things.

And if I wanted to expedite the review?

You'd need to convince the town attorney that expedition was

warranted.

And if I went to the state? Filed a complaint about the delay?

Dolores looks up from her knitting. For the first time, something like

approval in her expression.

That would be... unusual.

Unusual good or unusual bad?

Unusual interesting.

She hands him his receipts.

Fifteen business days, Mayor. I'll call you when they're ready.

Thank you, Dolores.

Don't thank me. I just stamp things.

Gil turns to leave.

Mayor.

He stops.

The number you asked about. The sequence.

Yes?

I've worked in this office for thirty-seven years. I've processed

thousands of permits, hundreds of invoices, dozens of contracts.

And?

And elections. I process those too.

A beat.

The elections.

The certifications. The ballots. The counts. All of it goes through

this window.

Including mine.

Including yours.

She picks up her knitting.

I've never noticed a pattern.

She pauses.

But I've never looked.

She goes back to her work.

Gil leaves.

Larger than Gil's. Better furniture. A window with an actual view. Photos on the wall: Wade shaking hands with governors, senators, executives.

Wade sits behind his desk. Sandra stands by the door.

He filed records requests?

Four of them. Rayborn correspondence, permits, payments, and executive

session minutes.

The executive sessions are confidential.

I told him. He's going to ask for a council vote.

On Thursday?

That's my assumption.

Wade leans back in his chair.

The podcast guy.

He prefers "mayor."

Forty-three votes.

Still mayor.

You listen to his podcast?

I did some research. After he filed.

And?

He's not stupid. He's... thorough. Obsessive. He sees connections

between things that may or may not exist.

The number thing.

SANDRA 1-6-3-8. He believes it's embedded in government documents. Connected to nuclear testing, institutional cover-ups, his mother's denied RECA claim.

So he's crazy.

Maybe. Or maybe he's the kind of crazy that's also right sometimes.

He asked about injection wells. In his first meeting.

He asked about water quality on Oak Street.

Same thing.

Is it?

Wade looks at her sharply.

What's that supposed to mean?

Nothing. Just that he asked about water, not wells. The connection

was... implied.

The connection was obvious.

To you.

To anyone who's paying attention.

Then maybe we should figure out what he's paying attention to.

Wade stands. Walks to the window.

What do you know about Oak Street?

Fourteen households have filed complaints about water quality in the

past year. Brown water, low pressure, occasional odor.

And foundation damage?

Six reports. Cracks, settling, some flooding. All within the past

eighteen months.

What did we do about it?

Referred them to the water utility. The utility tested at the main and

found nothing. They advised the homeowners to check their internal

plumbing.

And the foundation damage?

Not our department. We suggested they contact their insurance.

Did anyone follow up?

No.

Wade is quiet.

The drainage project. The one Rayborn did in 2022.

What about it?

It was supposed to fix the flooding on Oak Street.

Did it?

I don't know. That's the problem.

What do you mean?

I mean I signed the payment authorization. But I don't remember who

verified the work.

There should be a verification signature on the invoice.

There should be.

Is there?

Wade doesn't answer.

Wade. Is there?

I'll have to check.

Sandra looks at him.

You don't know if the work was verified.

I know it was done. I saw the trucks. I saw the crews.

But you don't know if anyone confirmed it was done correctly.

It was a reputable contractor.

That's not verification.

Sandra.

I'm not accusing you of anything. But if the new mayor starts pulling

records and he finds invoices without verification signatures...

It was an oversight.

One oversight?

I don't know.

How many invoices have you signed without verification?

I don't know.

Wade.

I don't know, Sandra. That's the honest answer. I trusted the

contractors. I trusted the process. I didn't check every line on

every invoice.

And if he finds that?

Then I'll explain it was an oversight.

Multiple oversights? Over multiple years?

Wade turns from the window.

What do you want me to say?

I want you to tell me if there's something I should know.

Long pause.

There's nothing to know.

He doesn't sound convinced.

Gil sits at his desk. The wall looms behind him. Microphone in front of him. Recording equipment.

He hasn't published a new episode in three years. But the setup is still there.

He's not recording for the public. He's recording for himself. A habit. Thinking out loud.

Day one. Installation complete. Wade Sutter looks at me like I'm

something he found on his shoe.

He pauses. Looks at his notes.

The drainage invoice. Rayborn Environmental Services. Sixteen thousand

three hundred eighty dollars. I noticed it the moment I saw it.

1-6-3-8.

He pins the invoice to the wall. Steps back. Stares at it.

He looks at the microphone.

I don't know how many of you are left. The numbers don't update anymore. Could be thousands. Could be twelve. Could be one.

Beat. His eyes drift toward the lens - almost. Not quite.

I'm not talking to everyone. I'm talking to the one person who's still listening. The one who hasn't turned it off yet.

He pauses.

If you're out there... stay with me.

He stops recording.

Wade alone at his desk. Documents spread before him. Financial statements. Medical bills. A calculator.

He's doing math. The kind of math that never works out.

He opens a drawer. Pulls out a file. RAYBORN COMMUNITY PARTNERSHIP - CONFIDENTIAL.

Inside: a letter. He's read it before. Reads it again.

"In recognition of Council President Sutter's ongoing support for regional economic development, Rayborn Energy is pleased to extend..."

He closes the file. Puts it back.

Picks up his phone. Dials.

This is Wade Sutter. I need to speak with someone about the community

health initiative... Yes, I'll hold.

He waits. Looks at the medical bills.

Yes. I'm calling about the prescription coverage for my wife.

Caroline Sutter... There was a question about authorization...

He listens. His expression shifts. Relief. Then something darker.

It's been resolved? When?... I see. Thank you.

He hangs up. Stares at the phone.

Someone made a call. Someone took care of it. Someone wants him to know they can take care of things.

He walks to the window. Looks out at the dark.

WADE (CONT'D) (to himself) Forty-seven jobs. Forty-seven families.

He counts them in his head. The names. The faces.

Martinez. Garcia. Salazar. The Benavideses -

He stops. Tommy Benavides. The one who asked questions. The one who's

in Odessa now.

The clinic. The school. The roads.

He turns from the window.

And the water's been the same for thirty years. Same tests. Same

reports. Same "within acceptable limits."

He sits down. Heavily.

Nothing changes. Nothing ever changes. Except now there's a mayor who

got forty-three votes and thinks he can -

A door opens upstairs. Footsteps on the stairs.

SUTTER (50s) appears in the doorway. Robe. Slippers. She was pretty

once, in a way that suggested energy. Now she looks diminished.

Who was that?

Work.

It's eleven.

The new mayor. He's causing concerns.

The podcast man.

You know about him?

Martha texted me. She said you looked upset at the installation.

I wasn't upset.

What were you?

Annoyed. There's a difference.

Caroline moves to the refrigerator. Opens it. Stares inside the way

people do when they're not really looking for food.

What does he want?

I don't know yet. Records. Information. Questions nobody's asked in

a long time.

About Rayborn?

About everything. But Rayborn is where it leads.

Is that a problem?

Wade doesn't answer right away.

You know what happens if that plant closes?

Jobs.

Forty-seven jobs. Forty-seven families. The clinic loses its biggest

donor. The school loses half its tax base.

He stands. Walks to her.

And the water? Gets tested by the same state agency that's been

testing it for thirty years. Same reports. Same limits. Nothing

changes except people lose their houses.

And if the water is actually bad?

Then it's been bad for years. And we've all been drinking it.

He looks at her.

Including you.

Silence.

I need to refill my prescription tomorrow. The pharmacy said there was

a question about the authorization.

It's been resolved.

How do you know?

I called.

When?

Just now.

And it's resolved. Just like that.

Just like that.

She looks at him. Knows something is wrong. Knows better than to ask.

I'm scared, Wade. Not of the cancer. Of whatever you're not telling

me.

She goes upstairs.

Wade stands alone in the kitchen.

Small. Clean. The apartment of someone who has carefully constructed a normal life.

Plants on the windowsill. A bookshelf with nursing textbooks and romance novels. A cat tree in the corner.

DESTINY PADILLA (30s) sits on the couch, laptop open, scrolling. She's looking at news articles about the installation.

On the screen: "CONSPIRACY PODCASTER BECOMES AGUAVERDE MAYOR WITH 43 VOTES"

She closes the laptop.

LORETTA, a tabby cat, jumps onto the couch. Destiny pulls her close.

He's going to do it again. You know that, right? He's going to start

a crusade, make enemies, burn everything down, and I'm going to have

to explain to my boss why my father is on the news.

Loretta purrs.

I moved back here because it was supposed to be quiet. Because rent

was cheap and the clinic was hiring and I thought - I thought maybe I

could have a normal life.

She sets down the cat.

Normal. With him as my father.

She pulls out her phone. Types: Can we talk?

Sends it.

Waits.

The reply comes: Tomorrow. Desert Freeze. 11 AM.

She stares at the message.

Desert Freeze. Of course. Because nothing says "serious

conversation" like soft-serve.

Plastic booths. Fluorescent lights. The smell of fryer oil and frozen dairy.

Gil sits in a booth. Binder on the table. He's made notes on index cards.

Destiny enters. Sees him. Sighs.

She gets in line. Orders. Pays. Sits across from him with a Mesa Swirl she doesn't want.

You look tired.

I worked the night shift.

You should sleep.

I will. After we talk.

She stirs the Mesa Swirl. Doesn't eat.

Dad. What are you doing?

My job.

Your job is to cut ribbons and smile for photos.

I don't smile.

I know.

And I'm not good at ribbons.

I know that too.

She sets down her spoon.

I saw the news. "Conspiracy podcaster becomes mayor." The article

mentioned your podcast. All one hundred and fifty-three episodes.

I haven't published anything in three years.

It doesn't matter. The internet remembers. My coworkers remember.

When I got to the clinic this morning, three people asked me if my

father really believes a four-digit number controls the government.

One of them found that old interview - the reporter who ambushed me

outside the hospital. Five years ago. Still circulating.

That's not what I believe.

Then what do you believe?

Gil is quiet for a moment.

I believe patterns exist. I believe powerful institutions leave

traces. I believe that when people in power want to hide something,

they hide it in plain sight - in numbers, in forms, in the boring

details nobody looks at.

And 1-6-3-8?

Was Mom's case number.

I know what it was.

Then you know why I can't let it go.

She's been dead for twenty years, Dad.

Twenty-two.

Twenty-two years. And you're still fighting the same fight.

I'm fighting a different fight. Oak Street. Brown water. Foundation

damage. Real problems affecting real people.

And it has nothing to do with the pattern?

Gil hesitates.

Dad.

The drainage invoice is sixteen thousand three hundred eighty dollars.

Jesus Christ.

The permit number for the nearest injection well is 2024-1638.

Dad -

I'm not saying it means anything. I'm saying I noticed. That's all.

I noticed, and I'm going to look into it, and if there's nothing

there, fine. But if there's something -

If there's something, you'll tear this whole town apart looking for

it. Just like you did before.

I didn't tear anything apart. I asked questions. I made a podcast. I

followed the paper.

And Mom still died. And you still spent every Christmas talking about

RECA amendments instead of asking me about my life. And I still had to

explain to every boyfriend I ever had why my father thinks the

government encodes secrets in bureaucratic forms.

Silence.

I'm sorry.

I know you're sorry. You're always sorry. That's not the point.

What's the point?

The point is I moved back here to have a normal life. The point is I

work at a clinic that's forty percent funded by Rayborn Energy. The

point is if you start a war with them, I'm the one who pays for it.

I'm not starting a war.

You asked about injection wells. In your first meeting.

I asked about water quality.

Same thing, Dad. You know it's the same thing.

Gil looks at her.

If the injection wells are contaminating the water, don't you want to

know?

I want to keep my job.

Even if your job is funded by people poisoning your neighbors?

You don't know they're poisoning anyone.

No. I don't. That's why I'm asking questions.

And what gives you the right? You got forty-three votes, Dad.

Forty-three people in a town of eight thousand.

That makes me the mayor. I'm already the crazy conspiracy mayor. I might as well be a useful one.

Destiny pushes her Mesa Swirl away.

I'm not asking you to stop. I know that's pointless. I'm asking you

to be careful. To think about consequences. To consider, just once,

that other people exist and that your actions affect them.

I think about you.

Do you?

Every day.

Then think about this: if you become the crazy conspiracy mayor who

attacks the town's biggest employer, my life gets very hard. My job

gets very hard. Everything gets very hard.

And if I don't say anything? And the water stays brown? And the

foundations keep cracking?

Then someone else can fix it.

Who?

She doesn't have an answer.

I have to go. I need to sleep before my shift tonight.

Destiny -

Loretta needs to be fed.

Who's Loretta?

Destiny stares at him.

My cat. She's been my cat for two years.

I didn't -

No. You didn't know. Because you don't ask. You don't visit. You

don't call unless you want something. You notice patterns in

government documents but you can't remember that your daughter has a

cat.

She stands.

I'll do better.

Mom always said you gave me your attention. Like it was genetic. Like I couldn't help but notice things.

That's not a gift.

She didn't say it was a gift. She said it was yours.

Beat.

I didn't want it. But here I am - counting your bank steps in my head.

Destiny -

Don't make promises, Dad. Just... be careful.

She walks out. Gil follows.

Late afternoon. Golden hour light cuts across the stone.

Destiny pushes through the Desert Freeze door and heads for her car. Gil follows - half apology, half reflex.

They pass the steps of FIRST STATE BANK. Wide stone stairs. Municipal grandeur from another era.

Gil stops.

Dad, my car is -

But he's already crouching. The worn ruler comes out of his binder like a reflex. He extends it across the width of the top step.

One-forty-one.

Dad. Please.

He doesn't hear her. He's measuring the next step down. Then the next.

WITH A STROLLER passes. Glances at the man crouching on the bank steps

with a ruler. Looks at Destiny. Keeps walking.

Destiny doesn't move. Arms crossed. Jaw tight.

Code says you need a center rail every sixty inches. These steps are a

hundred forty-one inches wide. Should be three rails. There's two.

This isn't -

They skipped the middle one. The one you'd actually grab if you fell.

Because it's cheaper. Because nobody checks.

A BUSINESSMAN in a suit walks up the steps, giving Gil a wide berth. He catches Destiny's eye. She looks away.

This is life safety, Destiny. This is the promise. The thing they sign

off on and then forget.

He stands. Brushes off his knees. Looks at the steps like they've

confessed something.

He notices something in the concrete. Crouches again. Scrapes at the

aggregate with his thumbnail. Gray grit. Unusual texture.

He writes in his notebook: "Fill source?"

If they'll cheat in daylight - on something everyone walks

past - imagine what they'll bury under a slab. Where nobody looks.

Destiny watches him. Not the steps. Him.

The way he sees what no one else sees.

The way it costs him everything.

A gust of wind pushes grit across the concrete.

I'm going to work.

She walks to her car. Doesn't look back.

ON: GIL.

He stands at the bottom of the steps. Looking up at the absent rail. The

empty space where safety should be.

He doesn't follow her.

After a moment, he goes back inside the Desert Freeze.

Gil sits alone at the booth. The binder closed in front of him.

Destiny's Mesa Swirl sits across from him. Untouched. Mint chip melting.

He looks at it.

Pulls it toward himself. Takes a bite.

Looks out the window at her car pulling away.

The "Home of the Mesa Swirl" sign buzzes in the window. Neon flicker.

Wade stands at the sink. Doesn't turn on the water. Just stands there.

The kitchen is modest. Clean. Photos on the refrigerator - Wade and Caroline at various ages. A calendar with doctor's appointments marked in red.

He's alone. Caroline is asleep upstairs. The house is quiet.

He's doing the math. The math he does every night.

Forty-seven jobs.

He looks out the window. At the dark.

Forty-seven families.

He starts counting on his fingers. Not theatrically. Privately. The way

someone does when they're trying to hold onto something.

Martinez. Garcia. Salazar. The Benavideses -

He stops.

Tommy Benavides. The one who asked questions. The one who's in Odessa

now. Lost his job. Lost his marriage.

Wade stares at nothing.

Tommy.

A long beat. The weight of that name.

Then he continues. Quieter now.

The Romeros. The Padillas - no relation. The Vigils.

He runs out of fingers. Keeps going anyway.

Half the volunteer fire department. The clinic's biggest donor. The

school's tax base.

He turns from the window.

If Rayborn closes, this town dies. Not slowly. Fast. The way towns die

when the money leaves.

He sits down at the kitchen table. There's a pill organizer there.

Caroline's. Seven days. Morning and night.

He touches it.

And Caroline's insurance. The experimental treatment. The one that's

working.

He doesn't say the rest. Doesn't need to. Rayborn's supplemental

coverage. The coverage that appeared after Wade stopped asking questions.

He looks at his hands.

I'm not a bad man.

Silence.

I'm a man who made a choice.

He hears footsteps upstairs. Caroline moving. Maybe awake. Maybe just

shifting in her sleep.

He waits.

The footsteps stop.

He exhales.

And the water? Gets tested. Same agency. Same reports. Same limits.

Thirty years, nothing changes.

He's rehearsing. Preparing for a conversation he might have to have.

Or a conversation he's already had with himself a thousand times.

If it's bad, it's been bad for years. We've all been drinking it.

He looks at the ceiling. At where Caroline sleeps.

Including her.

He puts his head in his hands.

This is Wade's tragedy. Not that he's evil. That he's not. That he's a man who loves his wife and knows his neighbors' names and made a choice that poisons both.

The kitchen clock ticks.

Wade sits alone with the weight of forty-seven families.

And one name he can't say twice.

Gil enters. Slams the door.

He stands in front of the wall. The pattern. Years of work. Red string and pushpins and documents and photographs.

He stares at it.

Then he rips down an index card.

Then another.

Then a photograph. A permit. An invoice.

He's not crying. He's not screaming.

The red string tangles in his hands. He pulls. Pushpins scatter across the floor like teeth.

The map of New Mexico tears. The timeline shreds.

He reaches the center. His mother's photograph. The cracked glass. The denial letter. Case #1638.

He stops.

His hand hovers.

He can't do it.

He sinks to the floor. Surrounded by the wreckage of his obsession. Index cards and permits and string.

He picks up his mother's photograph. Holds it.

I'm sorry, Mom. I'm sorry I couldn't -

He stops. Looks at the mess around him.

Picks up an index card. Reads it.

Pins it back to the wall.

Picks up another. Pins it.

He's rebuilding. Slowly. Methodically. The same compulsion that made him tear it down now makes him put it back together.

He can't stop. He doesn't want to stop.

The wall will be rebuilt by morning.

The smell of mold. Water stains on the walls. A crack running from floor to ceiling, wide enough to see daylight through.

Gil photographs everything. The crack. The water stains. The warped floor tiles.

Elena watches from the stairs.

It started about a year ago. Right after they opened that new

injection site.

Which site?

The Rayborn one. West of town. Five miles maybe.

Did you notice a connection?

I noticed my house started falling apart at the same time they started

pumping wastewater underground. I'm not a scientist, but I can add

two and two.

Gil walks to the crack. Runs his finger along it. Gray grit crumbles

away - the same texture he noticed in the bank steps. He pinches some between his fingers, frowns.

What's this foundation sitting on?

Whatever they poured it on. Fifty years ago. Why?

Gil doesn't answer. He takes out a small ziplock bag, scrapes some of

the grit into it.

When was the last tremor?

Two nights ago. Rattled the windows.

Did you report it?

Report it to who? Nobody cares about a 2.8.

GIL 2.8?

That's what the app said. I have one of those earthquake apps.

Gil pulls out his phone. Opens a USGS app. Scrolls.

March 14. Magnitude 2.8. Five miles southwest of Aguaverde.

That's the one.

There was another one on March 8. Magnitude 2.3.

I remember that one too.

And March 2. Magnitude 2.1.

Smaller. I didn't feel that one as much.

Gil looks at his phone. Something in his expression changes.

March 2. March 8. March 14.

What about them?

Gil hesitates.

The intervals. March 2 to March 8 is six days. March 8 to March 14 is

six days.

So they're regular?

Maybe.

He scrolls further back.

February 25. Magnitude 2.0. That's five days before March 2.

He keeps scrolling.

February 17. Magnitude 1.9. Eight days before February 25.

Is that significant?

Gil looks at the screen. His face is unreadable.

I don't know yet.

He puts the phone away.

Mrs. Marsh. Can I show you something?

Elena. And yes.

He takes out his binder. Flips to a page. A timeline he's been

building. Seismic events plotted on a graph.

These are all the recorded earthquakes within ten miles of Aguaverde

in the past year. Sixty-three events, most of them small. Under

magnitude 3.

That's a lot.

Before 2018? Two or three a year.

And now?

Sixty-three. In one year.

And nobody's investigating?

The state says the wells are operating within permit parameters. The

EPA says it's a state matter. The town says it's not our jurisdiction.

So everybody points at everybody else.

That's how it works.

Then how do we make it stop?

I don't know yet. But I'm going to find out.

Elena looks at him. At his binder. At his timeline.

You're not like other politicians.

I'm not a politician. I got elected by accident.

What are you then?

Persistent.

Elena pours coffee. Sets a cup in front of Gil.

He opens his binder to a new section. Pulls out a folder.

Can I show you something?

Show me.

He opens the folder. Inside: government forms. Old. Creased. Stamped in

red: DENIED.

This was my mother's RECA claim. Radiation Exposure Compensation Act.

She filed it in 1998.

Elena looks at the form.

What's RECA?

Federal program. Compensation for people exposed to radiation from

nuclear testing. Downwinders. Uranium miners. Test site workers.

Your mother was exposed?

She grew up in Carrizozo. Forty miles from Trinity. She was eight

years old when they detonated the first atomic bomb. Nobody warned

them. Nobody evacuated them. The fallout drifted over their town and

they didn't know what it was.

What happened to her?

Thyroid cancer. Diagnosed in 1995. She filed her first claim in

1998.

He pulls out a document. Stamped: DENIED - INSUFFICIENT DOCUMENTATION.

Denied.

Another document. Same stamp.

2000. DENIED.

Another.

2002. DENIED.

Another.

2004. FOURTH DENIAL. SHE DIED THREE MONTHS LATER. STILL WAITING FOR

the appeal.

He spreads the four denial letters on the table. Four documents. Four stamps.

The case number was 1638.

Elena looks at him.

After she died, I started seeing that number everywhere. In government

documents. In permit applications. In financial records. I know how

that sounds.

Are you crazy?

Maybe. Or maybe once you start paying attention, you see things other

people miss.

Like what?

Like the drainage invoice for Oak Street was exactly \$16,380. Like

the permit number for the nearest injection well is 2024-1638. Like

you live at 1638 Oak Street.

He stops. Something crosses his face.

Is that connected?

I don't know. The numbers are there. I don't know what they mean.

He gathers the denial letters. Returns them to the folder.

Four times she proved she was sick. Four times they said it wasn't

enough.

That's not a number. That's cruelty.

Silence.

My mother-in-law was from Tularosa.

Gil goes still.

She never talked about it. But I know she was there when it happened.

The fallout. The ash. She used to say it looked like snow.

Downwinder.

She filed claims too. Same answer.

How many times?

At least three. She died in 2008. Lung cancer. Never smoked. Never got

a dime.

Silence.

What do you need from me?

Documentation. Every time your water's brown, photograph it. Date and

time. Every complaint you file, keep a copy. Every phone call, write

down who you talked to and what they said.

And then?

Then we build a paper trail. So when someone finally asks questions,

the answers are on the record.

My mother-in-law would have liked you.

My mother would have liked you.

Gil stands before the wall.

He's adding new materials. The photographs from Elena's basement. The timeline of earthquakes. A map of Oak Street with dots marking each damaged house.

And something else.

He's written the earthquake dates on index cards. Calculated the intervals between them.

FEB 17 → FEB 25: 8 DAYS FEB 25 → MAR 2: 5 DAYS (= 6 - 1) MAR 2 → MAR 8: 6 DAYS MAR 8 → MAR 14: 6 DAYS (= 3 + 3)

He steps back. Stares.

Eight. Five. Six. Six.

He writes another card:

8 - 1 - 6 - 3 - 8 OR 1 - 8 - 5(6-1) - 6 - 6(3+3)

He pins it to the wall.

Not clean. Not obvious.

He crosses it out.

Writes:

NOT THE PATTERN. MAYBE JUST EARTHQUAKES.

Pins it.

Stares.

GIL (CONT'D) (to himself) Stay boring. Win by being boring. Forty-three votes and a binder.

His phone buzzes.

Text from Elena: Meeting starts at 7. 1638 Oak Street.

Gil freezes.

He reads the message again.

1638 Oak Street.

He types: What's your address?

Elena: 1638 Oak Street. The blue house with the porch swing.

Gil stares at the phone.

Looks at the wall. At his mother's denial letter. Case #1638.

Looks at the phone.

1638 Oak Street.

He pulls out the index card from his pocket. The one that says: DON'T

THE PATTERN.

Puts it back in his pocket.

The house number is visible from inside: 1638, stenciled on the mail slot.

Eighteen people. Folding chairs. The brown water jug from Elena's tap sits on the coffee table like an accusation.

Gil stands at the front of the room, binder open.

My name is Gil Padilla. I'm the new mayor.

Most of you don't know me. Some of you know my podcast. If you

listened to it, you probably think I'm crazy.

Nobody denies it.

Maybe I am. But I'm also the only person in town government who's

asked why your water is brown and your basements are flooding and

nobody's doing anything about it.

The room shifts.

In the past year, there have been sixty-three recorded seismic events

within ten miles of Aguaverde. Before the injection wells opened, we

averaged two or three a year.

He holds up a map.

Fourteen households on this street have reported water quality issues

or foundation damage. The town says it's your plumbing. The utility

says it's your problem. The state says it's not their jurisdiction.

MAN IN BACK (RICK SALAZAR)

My brother works for Rayborn.

Silence.

He's been there eight years. Feeds his family. Pays his mortgage.

Good job. Good benefits.

I'm not here to attack Rayborn.

Then what are you here for?

Elena's water is brown. Her foundation is cracked. Nobody will tell

her why.

And you think it's the wells.

I think it might be connected. I don't know for certain. That's why

I'm asking questions.

And if the questions hurt people? People like my brother?

Then we deal with that when we get there. But right now, the people

being hurt are in this room.

Rick studies him.

My basement flooded in March.

Tell me.

Sump pump couldn't keep up. Three inches of water. Ruined everything

in storage.

When exactly?

March 14. The night of the big tremor.

The 2.8.

Yeah.

Gil makes a note.

Anyone else have damage from that night?

Hands go up. Six. Eight. Eleven.

Did anyone file reports?

Hands drop. Three stay up.

What happened when you filed?

Nothing. They said they'd look into it.

Same. I called three times. "Natural settling."

My insurance said earthquakes aren't covered unless you have a

special rider. Which nobody told me I needed.

Gil writes all of it down.

Here's what I'm going to do. I'm going to file records requests

with the town. Correspondence with Rayborn. Payment records. Permits.

Everything.

And if they don't give them to you?

Then I'll go to the state. And if the state doesn't listen, I'll go

to the press. And if the press doesn't care, I'll go back to my

podcast.

The crazy podcast?

The thorough podcast. Nobody takes me seriously anyway. Might as well

use that.

He looks around the room.

I'm not promising anything. I'm a binder and a headache. But you

elected me to ask questions. So I'm asking.

What do you need from us?

Documentation. Every problem you've had - water, flooding, foundation

damage - write it down. Dates, times, who you called, what they said.

Take photos. Keep records.

And then?

Then we build a case. Not a court case. A paper case. Enough

documentation that when someone finally looks at this, they can't say

there's no evidence.

Will that work?

I don't know. My mother tried for fifteen years. Documented

everything. Every doctor's visit, every test result, every denial

letter. She died waiting.

Silence.

But her documentation is still there. Her case is still on record. And

someday someone's going to look at that record and see what happened.

He looks at Elena's jug of brown water.

I'm not asking you to fight a war. I'm asking you to keep receipts.

The meeting has ended. Most people have left.

Gil stands on the porch, looking at the house number: 1638.

Elena comes out.

You keep staring at my address.

I know.

It means something to you. The number.

It was my mother's case number. Her RECA claim.

Oh.

I see it everywhere. That probably makes me crazy.

Or it makes you paying attention.

Most people think it's the first thing.

Most people don't have brown water and cracked foundations.

Gil turns to face her.

Mrs. Marsh -

Elena.

Elena. I want to be honest with you. I notice patterns. I can't help

it. It's how my brain works. And sometimes the patterns are real and

sometimes I'm just seeing what I want to see. I can't always tell

the difference.

What are you trying to tell me?

I'm trying to tell you that I might be the wrong person to help you.

I have... baggage. History. A reputation.

You're the only person who's listened.

That's not a high bar.

In this town, it's the only bar.

Rick Salazar appears on the porch. He's been waiting. Smoking.

Mayor.

Rick.

Can I talk to you for a minute?

Of course.

Rick glances at Elena. She nods and goes inside.

I meant what I said. About my brother.

I know.

He's not a bad guy. He just needs the paycheck.

I understand.

But.

But?

He talks, sometimes. After a few beers. About things at work that

don't add up.

What kind of things?

Pressure readings that seem wrong. Disposal volumes that keep going

up. Equipment that's supposed to be monitored but isn't.

Has he reported it?

To who? The company? They'd fire him. The state? They don't care.

Would he talk to me?

No. He doesn't even know I'm here.

Then why are you telling me this?

Because something's wrong. I don't know what. But my basement

flooded and my wife is afraid to drink the water and my brother comes

home looking like he's seen something he wishes he hadn't.

He takes a drag.

You want to find the truth? Fine. But leave my brother out of it.

I can't promise that. If I find something that leads to Rayborn -

Then you be careful how you find it. Because there are a lot of

families in this town depending on those jobs.

And there are families in this town whose houses are falling apart.

Yeah. I know. That's the problem.

He finishes his cigarette. Drops it. Steps on it.

My brother mentioned a name once. Guy who asked too many questions.

Got transferred to West Texas. Middle of nowhere. His wife left him

within six months.

What was his name?

I don't know. But I can find out.

I'd appreciate that.

And if I do - you didn't get it from me.

I understand.

No. You don't.

He walks to his truck.

But you will.

He drives away.

Gil stands on the porch.

Looks at the house number.

1638.

Gil at his desk, organizing notes from the meeting.

His phone buzzes. USGS EARTHQUAKE ALERT.

MAGNITUDE 3.4 - 5 MILES SW OF AGUAVERDE

The trailer shakes.

Not violently. But more than before. Books rattle on shelves. The photograph of his mother slides across the desk.

He catches it.

The shaking stops.

Gil sits still.

His phone buzzes.

Elena: Did you feel that?

Gil: Yeah. 3.4.

Elena: My grandmother lived in this house for sixty years. She never felt an earthquake. Not once.

Gil stares at the message.

Types: When did they start?

Elena: Three years ago. When they opened the new injection site.

Elena: It wasn't like this before.

He looks at his timeline. The earthquake dates. The well permits.

Types: I'm going to find out why.

He puts down the phone.

Looks at the framed denial letter. Case #1638.

Something's wrong here. Something that wasn't wrong before.

He writes on an index card:

8 - 5 - 6 - 6 - 6

Stares at it.

Not the pattern. Just... numbers.

He pins it to the wall anyway.

Three days later.

The room is full. Word has spread. Something might happen.

Wade sits at the center of the dais. The council members flank him. Sandra at the staff table.

In the audience: Elena, front row, holding her jug of brown water. Rick Salazar, near the back. Dolores, knitting.

And reporters. Three of them. The 3.4 made the regional news.

Wade bangs the gavel.

The regular meeting of the Aguaverde Town Council is called to order.

The meeting proceeds: roll call, minutes, routine business.

Then:

We now move to new business. Mayor Padilla has submitted two agenda

items. Mayor, you have the floor.

Gil stands.

Thank you, Mr. President. My first item is a resolution requesting

water quality testing data from the New Mexico Environment Department.

Specifically, any testing conducted within ten miles of Aguaverde

related to groundwater or surface water that may have been affected by

injection well operations.

Discussion?

What prompted this request?

Fourteen households on Oak Street have reported brown water and

foundation damage in the past year. The timing coincides with -

He pauses. Almost says something.

Sandra, at the staff table, coughs. Lightly.

Gil glances at her.

GIL (CONT'D) - with increased activity in the area.

Is there evidence of a connection?

That's what testing would tell us.

The state has jurisdiction over injection wells. This is outside our

authority.

I'm not requesting authority. I'm requesting information.

And if the state declines to provide it?

Then at least we'll have asked. On the record.

Further discussion?

Silence.

All in favor?

Four hands go up.

Opposed?

Wade raises his hand alone.

Motion carries. Four to one.

He doesn't hide his displeasure.

Your second item, Mayor.

A request for access to executive session minutes from 2020 to

present.

The room stirs.

Executive sessions are confidential.

Section 8.4 of the charter allows release by majority vote of the

council.

For what purpose?

To understand what decisions have been made in closed session

regarding Rayborn Energy, Oak Street infrastructure, and related

matters.

You're implying that something improper occurred.

I'm implying nothing. I'm requesting information.

Executive sessions exist to protect sensitive deliberations.

And public accountability exists to ensure those deliberations serve

the public interest.

Is there a specific executive session you're concerned about?

I don't know. That's why I'm requesting the minutes.

This is a fishing expedition.

It's a records request. From the mayor. About matters affecting this town. The least the public deserves is transparency.

Discussion?

Why now? You've been in office less than a week.

Because people on Oak Street have been waiting six months for help. Someone needed to make it their concern.

And you think the executive sessions have answers?

I think they might have context. What did the council discuss when the

injection wells were first proposed? What did they discuss when Oak

Street residents started complaining? What did they discuss when the

first tremors were reported?

The council discussed what councils always discuss. Policy. Procedure.

The appropriate response to constituent concerns.

Then there should be nothing to hide.

Silence.

All in favor of releasing executive session minutes?

Two hands go up.

Opposed?

Three hands, including Wade's.

Motion fails. Three to two.

Gil nods. He expected this.

For the record, I intend to file a formal request with the town

attorney. If that request is denied, I'll appeal to the state.

That's your prerogative.

I know.

They look at each other. Something passes between them. An

acknowledgment.

This is the beginning of something.

Is there any other new business?

Not tonight.

Then we're adjourned.

He bangs the gavel.

Gil walks to his truck.

Mayor Padilla.

Gil turns. Wade approaches.

A word?

They stand in the parking lot. Long shadows from the town hall lights.

You're good at this.

At what?

Making people uncomfortable.

Is something being hidden?

Wade doesn't answer directly.

You ever hear of the golden rule? The one about gold?

He who has the gold.

Rayborn has the gold. Has for thirty years.

And in exchange?

We don't ask too many questions.

That's worked for you.

For this town.

Tell that to Elena Marsh.

Elena Marsh is one person.

Elena Marsh is fourteen households. Maybe more.

Silence.

What do you want? Really.

(quiet) Case 1638. RECA. Denied four times.

What does that have to do with -

I don't know yet.

Your mother?

Wade studies him.

You're going to be a problem for me.

Good. That means I'm doing my job.

Your records request will be routed through counsel.

He turns. Walks away.

Gil stands alone.

Two weeks later.

Gil approaches Dolores's window. She's knitting. Always knitting.

My records request.

Which one?

Rayborn correspondence. Permits. Payments.

Fifteen business days.

It's been seventeen.

Has it?

She reaches under the counter. Pulls out a box.

I'm the mayor of a town that barely votes. You'd think that would make me easy to ignore.

You'd think.

Gil opens the box.

Half the pages are black. Redacted.

He holds one up. The entire page is black except for a date: 03/14/2022.

What is this?

That's what was provided.

I asked for correspondence. This is... ink.

Legal review determined certain portions were confidential.

The whole page?

Confidential portions.

Dolores.

Mayor.

They look at each other.

Is there anything in here I can actually read?

Page thirty-two.

Gil flips.

Page thirty-two: an invoice.

ENVIRONMENTAL SERVICES DRAINAGE ASSESSMENT - OAK STREET

\$16,380.00

At the bottom: two signature lines.

AUTHORIZATION: Wade's signature. WORK VERIFICATION: Blank.

The invoice.

What about it?

The amount. Sixteen thousand three hundred eighty dollars.

That's what it says.

GIL 1-6-3-8-0.

It's an invoice amount.

And this line. The verification line. It's blank.

Dolores's needles pause.

Is it?

Someone was supposed to verify the work was completed. Before payment

was authorized. Nobody signed.

That does seem like an oversight.

How many other invoices have blank verification lines?

I wouldn't know. I just stamp things.

But you've been here thirty-seven years. You've seen thousands of

invoices.

I've seen what I've seen.

And what have you seen?

Dolores sets down her knitting. For the first time, she looks at him

directly. Something in her eyes. Not warning. Not encouragement. Something more like recognition.

I've seen people come and go. I've seen questions asked and not

answered. I've seen paperwork filed and lost and found and lost

again. I've seen patterns.

What kind of patterns?

The kind nobody wants to see.

She picks up her knitting.

You asked about the number. 1-6-3-8.

Yes.

The invoice amount. The permit number. Your mother's case.

Yes.

I don't know if it means anything. I've never looked for patterns.

That's not my job. My job is to stamp things and file things and

pretend I don't notice what I notice.

What have you noticed?

Long pause.

I've noticed that some numbers come up more than others. I've

noticed that certain invoices have certain amounts that don't round

the way invoices usually round. I've noticed that when certain

questions get asked, certain files become harder to find.

Are you telling me something?

I'm telling you what I've noticed. What you do with it is your

business.

Dolores -

Eighteen more pages in that box, Mayor. Not everything is redacted.

Gil looks at the box. Looks at her.

Thank you.

Don't thank me. I just stamp things.

Gil takes the box. Turns to leave.

At the bottom of the box, beneath the last document, he notices something.

A POST-IT NOTE. Yellow. Handwritten. Block letters.

QUESTIONS.

He stares at it. Turns it over. Nothing.

He looks back at Dolores. She's knitting. Not looking at him.

He puts the note in his pocket and leaves.

Gil sits at his desk. The box of records open. Papers spread across every surface.

He's sorting. Categorizing. Looking for patterns.

On the wall: new additions.

- The invoice: \$16,380. Circled. - The permit: #2024-1638. Circled. - The earthquake timeline. Intervals marked. - Elena's address: 1638 Oak Street. Circled. - The POST-IT: WRONG QUESTIONS.

He holds up a page. Another invoice. \$32,760.00.

He writes on a card: 32,760 ÷ 2 = 16,380.

Pins it to the wall.

Another invoice: \$81,900.00.

Card: 81,900 ÷ 5 = 16,380.

Pins it.

Another invoice. This one different: \$16,379.00.

Gil stops.

Sixteen three seventy-nine.

Off by one.

He stares at it. Writes on a card:

\$16,379 = \$16,380 - 1 TYPO? ERROR? OR SOMETHING ELSE?

Pins it to the wall. Frowns. It doesn't fit.

He sets it aside. Keeps sorting.

More invoices. More multiples.

\$16,380. \$32,760. \$49,140. \$81,900. \$163,800.

He writes:

16,380 × 1 = 16,380 16,380 × 2 = 32,760 16,380 × 3 = 49,140 16,380 × 5 = 81,900 16,380 × 10 = 163,800

Pins it to the wall.

All of them. All divisible by the same base number.

He stares.

That's not coincidence. That's a unit price.

He looks at the framed denial letter.

Case 1638.

He looks at his mother's photograph.

What am I looking at, Mom?

The photograph doesn't answer.

Among the documents, he finds something else. An old permit application. Faded. A date stamp:

ESTABLISHED: 1958

He pauses. Looks at it.

1958.

He pins it to the wall. Doesn't know what to do with it. A thread he

can't follow. The system is older than Rayborn. Older than the injection wells. Older than his mother's claim.

He sits down. Puts his head in his hands.

Maybe I'm crazy. Maybe I'm finding what I want to find.

He looks up at the wall.

Or maybe I'm right.

He picks up his phone. Types a text to Sandra:

I need to see all Rayborn invoices from the past five years. Not just the summaries. The originals.

Sends it.

He looks at the POST-IT.

QUESTIONS.

Wrong questions. What are the right ones?

He stares at the blank verification line on the invoice.

The pattern. The number. That's what everyone expects me to chase.

That's how they'll dismiss me.

He stands. Walks to the wall.

But the blank line. That's not pattern. That's procedure. That's a

signature that should be there and isn't.

He picks up a red marker. Writes across the top of the corkboard:

AM I MISSING?

Below it:

BLANK LINE.

4:16 AM.

Gil is asleep at his desk. Head on his arms. The binder open beneath him.

The trailer starts to shake.

Not like before. This is different. This is sustained.

Five seconds. Ten seconds. Fifteen seconds.

Books fall from shelves. The coffee cup slides off the desk and shatters. The corkboard rattles against the wall - pins popping loose, papers fluttering to the floor.

Gil wakes. Grabs the desk. Holds on.

The shaking continues.

His mother's photograph slides across the desk. He catches it before it falls.

Twenty seconds.

The trailer groans. Something in the structure shifts. A crack appears in the ceiling - hairline, but visible.

Twenty-five seconds.

And then it stops.

Silence.

Gil sits in the dark, breathing hard. His mother's photograph in his hands.

His phone buzzes. USGS EARTHQUAKE ALERT.

MAGNITUDE 4.1 - 3 MILES SW OF AGUAVERDE

He stares at the number.

4.1.

His phone buzzes again. And again. And again. Text messages flooding in.

Elena: Are you okay?

Destiny: Gil? Gil?

Sandra: Emergency session. 8 AM. Be there.

Marlene: Biggest one yet. You feel that?

He doesn't answer any of them.

He looks at the wall. At the papers on the floor. At the pins that popped loose.

He gets up. Starts re-pinning. Methodically. One document at a time.

His hands are shaking.

Outside, he can hear sirens. Car alarms. Dogs barking.

He keeps pinning.

The equation is still there. Still unfinished.

1638 ÷ 43 =

He looks at it.

This isn't supposed to happen here. Not like this.

He picks up his phone. Types a reply to Elena:

I'm okay. You?

Elena: Foundation cracked. All the way through. I can see outside through my basement wall.

Gil closes his eyes.

Types: I'm coming.

Elena: No. Stay. We need you at that meeting.

He looks at the wall. At the pattern. At the evidence he's gathered.

Types: I'll be there. 8 AM.

Elena: Make them listen.

He puts down the phone.

Looks at his mother's photograph. The crack in the glass has spread. A new fracture, running from her face to the edge of the frame.

This isn't normal. This isn't supposed to happen.

He sets the photograph on the desk.

Looks at the ceiling crack. At the damage to his trailer. At the papers still scattered on the floor.

Something is wrong with the ground beneath us.

He starts gathering the fallen documents.

Outside, the sirens continue.

The Martinez family's adobe - the one that's stood for eighty years - has partially collapsed. He'll learn this later. Right now, he's just gathering papers. Preparing for a meeting. Trying to make sense of numbers that won't add up.

The sun is starting to rise.

Gil works in the early light.

The wall watches him.

8 AM. The room is fuller than it's ever been. The 4.1 made the news - not just local, regional. A camera crew from Albuquerque sets up in the back.

Gil sits at the far end of the dais. His binder is thicker than before. He looks like he hasn't slept.

Wade sits at the center, composed. Too composed. The composure of a man who's had practice.

Sandra at the staff table. She's drawn three boxes on her legal pad already. Dolores in the back, knitting. Watching.

In the audience: Elena, front row. Rick Salazar, middle. More Oak Street residents than before - word has spread.

Wade bangs the gavel.

This emergency session is called to order. We're here to discuss the

seismic event that occurred last night at approximately 4:16 AM.

Magnitude 4.1. The largest recorded earthquake in this area in over

twenty years.

4:16 and 38 seconds.

Wade looks at him.

I'm sorry?

The exact time. According to the USGS. 4:16:38 AM.

Is that relevant?

Probably not. I just notice things.

Wade holds his gaze a moment. Then continues.

I want to begin by assuring residents that town services are operating

normally. Public works has assessed critical infrastructure. No major

damage has been reported to municipal facilities.

My chimney collapsed.

My foundation cracked clean through.

The water main on Elm Street is leaking.

Wade holds up a hand.

I understand there's been property damage. We're compiling reports.

Anyone with damage should contact the town clerk's office to file a

formal complaint.

We've been filing complaints for a year.

Mrs. Marsh -

Fourteen houses. Brown water. Cracked foundations. Nobody responds.

This isn't the forum for -

Point of order.

Wade's jaw tightens.

Section 5.3 of the procedures manual. Emergency sessions allow public

comment on matters related to the emergency. Mrs. Marsh's concerns

are directly related.

The seismic event is the emergency. Prior complaints are a separate

matter.

Are they? The seismic event caused foundation damage. Mrs. Marsh has

been reporting foundation damage for a year. Either the issues are

connected or they're not. But she has a right to speak.

The council will hear public comment at the appropriate time -

The appropriate time is now. People's houses are falling apart. They

came here for answers. Are we going to give them answers or are we

going to hide behind procedure?

Silence.

You want to talk about procedure, Mayor?

I want to talk about accountability.

Accountability for what?

For this.

Gil opens his binder. Pulls out a document. Holds it up.

This is an invoice. Rayborn Environmental Services. Drainage

assessment, Oak Street. \$16,380. Paid in full. March 2022.

I'm aware of that invoice.

Are you aware that the verification line is blank?

Silence.

Someone authorized the payment. That's your signature, Council

President. But nobody verified that the work was actually done.

It was an oversight.

One oversight?

He pulls out another document.

Another invoice. Same contractor. Same blank verification line.

\$32,760.

Another document.

And another. \$49,140.

Another.

And another. \$81,900.

He spreads them across the dais.

Four invoices. Four blank verification lines. \$180,080 in payments

to Rayborn contractors with no confirmation that any work was

completed.

Those are legitimate invoices for legitimate services -

How do you know? Nobody verified them.

I saw the trucks. I saw the crews.

You saw activity. Did you see results?

That's not my job.

Whose job is it?

Wade doesn't answer.

This is highly irregular -

The blank lines are highly irregular. That we've paid Rayborn

contractors almost two hundred thousand dollars without a single

verification signature is highly irregular.

Pattern? What pattern?

The pattern of... procedural failures. Repeated failures.

You said "pattern." You meant something else.

I meant that when the same mistake happens over and over, it stops

being a mistake.

What are you implying?

I'm asking questions. That's what forty-three people elected me to

do.

He turns to the audience.

Here's what I know. Oak Street has been flooding for eighteen months.

Fourteen households have reported damage. The town paid for a drainage

assessment that nobody verified. The earthquakes are getting stronger.

And when I ask questions, I get told it's not our jurisdiction.

He turns back to Wade.

So I'm making it our jurisdiction. I'm asking the council to

commission an independent audit of all Rayborn-related expenditures

for the past five years.

That's a significant undertaking -

It's a significant amount of money.

The cost alone -

The cost of doing nothing is fourteen houses with brown water. The

cost of doing nothing is a 4.1 earthquake at four in the morning.

I move to table this discussion -

I second the motion to... wait. I want to hear more.

The motion is to table -

I withdraw my second.

Silence.

Fine. Discussion.

All I'm asking for is an audit. An independent review. If there's

nothing to hide, the audit will show that.

What would this audit include?

All payments to Rayborn and affiliated contractors. All permits

issued. All inspection reports. All correspondence between the town

and Rayborn regarding Oak Street infrastructure.

And who would conduct this audit?

An independent firm. Selected by the full council. Not appointed by

any single member.

Wade looks at him. Long and hard.

All in favor of commissioning an independent audit?

Hands go up. Holt. Morales. The two who voted for the executive

session minutes.

Three to two. Wade opposed.

Motion carries.

An independent audit gives us subpoena power. Records Rayborn

wouldn't release voluntarily.

And if they find discrepancies?

Automatic referral to the state AG. It's not a town matter anymore.

Wade doesn't hide his anger.

Is there anything else, Mayor?

Not from me. But I believe Mrs. Marsh wanted to speak.

Elena stands. She's holding her jug of brown water.

My name is Elena Marsh. I live at 1638 Oak Street.

Gil's expression flickers at the address. Nobody else notices.

This is my water.

She sets the jug on the edge of the dais.

Last night, the earthquake cracked my foundation from floor to

ceiling. I can see daylight through my basement wall. My insurance

says it's not covered. The town says it's not their jurisdiction.

She looks at Wade.

Why?

Mrs. Marsh, I understand your frustration -

I'm not frustrated. I'm scared.

The town is doing everything in its power -

No. They're hiding.

She picks up her jug.

The mayor showed up. That's more than anyone else did.

She sits down.

Is there any other public comment?

Three more people stand. Then five. Then eight.

They tell their stories. Brown water. Cracked foundations. Insurance

denials. Ignored complaints.

Gil writes everything down.

When the last person finishes, Wade bangs the gavel.

This session is adjourned. The audit will be scheduled at the next

regular meeting.

People start to leave.

Council President.

Wade stops.

Thank you.

For what?

For the vote. Even if you opposed it.

I opposed it because I know what you're doing.

What am I doing?

You're looking for something that isn't there.

Then the audit will prove you right.

Wade shakes his head.

You really believe it, don't you? The pattern. The numbers.

I believe in documentation. I believe in verification.

You're going to tear this town apart looking for a number.

I'm going to tear this town apart looking for a blank line. The

number is just how I noticed.

He walks away.

Wade watches him go.

Gil walks out of the chamber. Sandra catches up.

That was something.

That was an audit request.

That was a declaration of war.

I asked for documentation.

You accused Wade of financial impropriety in front of a TV camera.

I pointed out that verification lines were blank. If that's an

accusation, it's an accusation of negligence, not corruption.

You think there's a difference?

There's a legal difference.

Wade won't see it that way.

Wade can see it however he wants.

Sandra stops walking.

Can I give you some advice?

Can I stop you?

The audit is going to take months. Independent firm, comprehensive

scope, political sensitivity - you're looking at six months minimum

before you see any findings.

I can wait.

Can the people on Oak Street?

What's your point?

My point is that the audit is the long game. You need something in the

short term. Something that shows progress. Something that gives people

hope.

Like what?

Like water testing. Independent testing. Not from the

utility - they've already said everything's fine. From an outside

lab. Something that can actually tell people what's in their water.

The council approved the request for state testing data.

The state will take three months to respond, and when they do, it'll

be a form letter saying their tests show no abnormalities. You need

your own data.

That costs money.

The mayor's discretionary fund. Section 4.7 of the budget. You have

\$5,000 for expenses that don't require council approval.

I didn't know about that.

Most mayors don't. They use it for community events. Pancake

breakfasts. Christmas decorations.

I'm not good at pancakes.

Then use it for water testing. Get samples from Oak Street. Send them

to a certified lab. When the results come back - and they will come

back, one way or another - you'll have evidence that nobody can deny.

Why are you helping me?

Because I've worked in this building for twelve years, and I've

watched Wade not ask questions for twelve years, and I'm tired of not

asking questions.

That's a dangerous thing to say out loud.

I'm the town manager. I'm supposed to be neutral. But neutral

doesn't mean blind. And I've seen enough blank verification lines to

know that something is wrong.

You've seen the pattern too.

I've seen the absences. The places where things should be and

aren't. That's not a pattern - that's a symptom.

Of what?

Of a system that stopped working a long time ago. Or maybe never

worked at all.

She hands him a folder.

Budget document. Section 4.7 is highlighted. The discretionary fund

requires a written justification but no approval. File the paperwork

and the money is yours.

Thank you.

Don't thank me. I'm not on your side.

Whose side are you on?

The town's. Whatever that means.

She walks away.

Gil looks at the folder.

Gil approaches Dolores's window. She's knitting. The same project. It never seems to get any longer.

I have a budget request.

Section 4.7?

How did you know?

Sandra walked past my window ten minutes ago. She had that look.

What look?

The look of someone who just did something they can't take back.

She takes the form. Examines it.

Water testing. Independent lab. \$4,800.

Is there a problem?

The form is complete. I'll process it today.

She stamps it. RECEIVED.

You should have results in two weeks.

Thank you.

Mayor.

Yes?

The note in the box.

Gil goes still.

DOLORES (CONT'D) "Wrong questions."

You left that.

I stamp things. I don't leave notes.

Then who -

I don't know. But I noticed that the note appeared in a box that was

under my control, in a building where I know every lock and every key,

and I don't remember putting it there.

What are you saying?

I'm saying that someone is watching. Someone who has access that they

shouldn't have. Someone who knows what questions you're asking

before you ask them.

And the second note? The one in my trailer?

Dolores's needles stop.

What second note?

GIL "Right questions." With an invoice. \$163,800.

I don't know anything about that.

Then there are two of them. Two people leaving notes.

Or one person who can get into places they shouldn't.

That's not reassuring.

It wasn't meant to be.

She resumes knitting.

You asked me once if I'd ever seen the number. 1-6-3-8.

You said you'd never looked.

I lied.

Gil waits.

Thirty-seven years in this office. I've seen a lot of numbers come

through. Most of them don't mean anything. But some of them...

some of them come up more than they should.

The invoice amounts.

Not just invoices. Permits. Case numbers. File codes. Even addresses.

Elena Marsh lives at 1638 Oak Street.

I know.

Is that a coincidence?

I don't believe in coincidence. But I don't believe in what you

believe either.

What do I believe?

You believe the number means something. That it's a code or a

signature or a pattern with a purpose.

And you don't?

I believe it's there. I don't know why it's there. But I've

learned to notice when it appears, because when it appears, things get

complicated.

Complicated how?

People start asking questions. Files go missing. Procedures that

usually work stop working. It's like... like the number is a

marker. A flag. Something that says "pay attention here."

A warning?

Or an invitation. I've never been sure which.

Dolores. Do you know something you're not telling me?

Long pause.

I know a lot of things I'm not telling you. That's how I've

survived thirty-seven years in this office.

But?

But I'll tell you this. The number isn't the answer. The number is

how you find the answer. The answer is in the blank lines. The missing

signatures. The procedures that weren't followed.

That's what I said at the council meeting.

I know. I was listening.

Were you surprised?

I was... hopeful.

Hopeful?

That someone finally figured out the right approach. You don't prove

the pattern - you can't prove the pattern. But you can prove that

someone didn't sign a form. You can prove that money was spent

without verification. You can prove negligence. And negligence opens

doors that conspiracy closes.

Boring is where they hide.

Exactly.

She finishes a row. Starts another.

There's something else. Something I noticed in the records before I

gave them to you.

What?

One of the invoices didn't match. \$16,379. One dollar off.

I saw that. I thought it was a typo.

Maybe. Or maybe it's not the same pattern.

What do you mean?

I mean that maybe there's more than one system at work here. More

than one... author.

Author?

Or maybe I'm as crazy as you are.

She looks at him directly.

Be careful, Mayor. You're not just looking at numbers. You're

looking at something that's been here a long time. Something that doesn't like being seen.

That sounds like superstition.

It sounds like thirty-seven years of paying attention.

She goes back to her knitting.

Your budget request will be processed by end of business. Is there

anything else?

Yes. The election results.

Dolores's needles pause. Almost imperceptibly.

What about them?

You said you process elections. Certifications. Ballots. Counts.

I did.

How does that work? The counting.

Paper ballots. Hand-counted. Two poll workers plus a supervisor.

Standard procedure.

And after the count?

The ballots go in a box. The box goes in my cabinet. Nobody checks it unless there's a recount.

How often is there a recount?

In thirty-two years? Never. Nobody cares enough.

And the certification?

The count is recorded, reviewed, and certified by the town clerk.

That's you.

That's me. I write the number. I stamp the paper. Nobody double-checks.

So you certified my election. Forty-three votes.

I certified the official count.

Which was forty-three.

Which is what the official record shows.

Something in her tone. Gil catches it.

Is the official record accurate?

Long silence.

The official record is what I stamped. I just stamp things, Mayor.

She doesn't look at him.

Dolores.

Window closes at four-thirty. You have a water test to commission.

She slides the glass panel shut.

Gil stands there for a moment. Then walks away.

Behind the glass, Dolores watches him go.

She looks down at her knitting. At the pattern emerging from her

needles. A pattern she didn't intend.

She unravels the last few rows and starts again.

Gil on the phone. Pacing. The wall behind him.

You the mayor? The one asking about Rayborn?

Who is this?

The pressure data. The disposal volumes. They're falsified.

How do you know?

Because I used to record them. Before they transferred me. Before they

took everything.

Can you prove it?

Silence.

There's a storage unit. Tucumcari. Unit 1638. I hid copies before they

cleaned me out.

What's the combination?

42-39-81.

Gil writes it down. Stares at it.

42 times 39 equals 1638.

You see it too.

Click. Dead line.

Gil looks at the numbers. Then grabs his keys.

A row of metal units. Small. Anonymous. The kind of place where people store things they want to forget.

Gil parks. Gets out.

Unit 1638 is at the end of the row. Smaller than the others. A padlock on the door.

He enters the combination. 42-39-81.

The lock clicks open.

He lifts the door.

Inside: boxes. Filing boxes. A dozen of them, stacked neatly.

On top of the nearest box: a POST-IT NOTE. Yellow. Block letters.

YOU FOUND IT.

Same handwriting as before. Same block letters.

Gil opens the first box.

Gil sits on the concrete floor, boxes open around him, papers spread everywhere.

What he's found:

Pressure logs. Columns of numbers showing injection well pressure readings. Handwritten notes in the margins: "Adjusted per management directive." "Original reading: 3,200 PSI. Reported: 2,800 PSI."

Volume records. Disposal quantities. The official records show the wells operating at 80% capacity. Tommy's records show 140%.

Emails. Printed copies. Internal communications. "Need to stay under the EPA threshold or we'll trigger an audit."

He photographs everything.

Gil at his desk, surrounded by Tommy's documents.

He's organizing. Categorizing. Building a timeline.

On the wall: new additions.

DATA - FALSIFIED VOLUME DATA - FALSIFIED INJECTION CAPACITY -

140% OF LEGAL LIMIT

On the desk: a thin construction folder that doesn't belong with oilfield logs. OAK STREET SUBDIVISION - PHASE I. MATERIAL REQUISITION:

FILL - 1,638 CUBIC YARDS. Supplier: RED MESA RECLAMATION

(RECLAIMED). A stamped note: NO TESTING REQUIRED.

Beside it, a folded government map on old letterhead. A plume diagram traced in pencil - fallout drift plotted along the base of a mountain range. A handwritten label: BASELINE WIND PATH.

He picks up his phone. Texts Elena:

Found something. Big. Need to talk.

Elena: Tomorrow morning?

Gil: Can you come to my place? I don't want to discuss this in public.

Elena: Address?

He hesitates. Then sends it.

A few minutes later, his phone buzzes again.

Destiny: Dad, are you okay? I heard about the council meeting.

Gil stares at the message.

Types: I'm fine. How are you?

Destiny: Worried about you.

Don't be. What's the worst that can happen?

Destiny: That's not funny.

Gil: I wasn't joking.

Pause.

Destiny: Can we talk? Really talk?

Gil looks at the documents surrounding him. At the wall. At the evidence

of falsification and cover-up.

Types: Soon. I promise. But not tonight. Tonight I'm working.

Destiny: You're always working.

Gil: I know. I'm sorry.

Destiny: You're always sorry too.

She's right. He is always sorry. It doesn't change anything.

He puts down the phone.

Picks up the photograph. The one with the impossible date.

June 16, 2038.

"The first fault line."

He studies the date stamp. The format is wrong - it doesn't match any

government dating system he's seen. The font is off. Like someone created this to be found.

Disinformation. Or a warning. Or a test.

He pins it to the wall anyway.

He doesn't know what it means. But someone wanted him to find it. That

makes it important.

Destiny at her kitchen table. Laptop open. Papers spread out - Gil's documents, photocopied.

She's doing what she does: procedure. Verification. The medical mind refusing to believe without evidence.

On her notepad:

CLAIMS TO VERIFY: - Pressure data falsified (need original EPA filings) - Disposal volumes exceeded (need permit limits) - Invoice amounts match 1638 pattern (need independent sample)

She's crossed off the first two. Checkmarks. Verified.

The third one is circled. Unresolved.

She stares at it.

Loretta jumps onto the table. Destiny pushes her off.

It's confirmation bias. He finds the number because he's looking for

it.

She opens her laptop. Pulls up the county permit database. Types:

RAYBORN ENVIRONMENTAL.

A list of permits. Dates. Amounts.

She scrolls. Looking for 1638. Looking for the pattern.

Nothing obvious.

She exhales. Relief.

Then stops.

Goes back to Gil's notes. His claim wasn't about permit amounts. It was about permit \*intervals\*.

She checks his handwriting: "Days between permit renewals follow the

sequence."

She doesn't believe it. She's going to prove it wrong.

She pulls up the dates. Types them into a spreadsheet.

First permit: March 3, 2019. Second permit: July 18, 2019.

Days between: 137.

Third permit: November 19, 2019.

Days between: 124.

Fourth permit: April 2, 2020.

Days between: 135.

She frowns. No pattern.

Then she sees Gil's note: "Add the intervals."

137 + 124 + 135 = 396.

She stares at it. 396. Not 1638.

She laughs. Quietly. With relief.

See? Nothing.

She starts to close the laptop.

Then stops.

Gil's note has one more line: "First four permits = baseline. Pattern emerges in deviation from baseline."

She doesn't want to keep going.

She keeps going.

Fifth permit: August 14, 2020.

Days from fourth permit: 134.

Baseline average: 132.

Deviation: +2.

She adds the next permit. And the next. And the next. Building a column

of deviations from baseline.

+2, -4, +6, +3, -8, +1, +6, +3, +8...

She stares at the numbers. They mean nothing.

Then she sees Gil's final note: "Sum the absolute deviations for permits 5-20."

She does the math.

2 + 4 + 6 + 3 + 8 + 1 + 6 + 3 + 8...

Her pen stops.

The sum is 38.

She checks it. Checks it again.

On the table next to her laptop: a glass of water. Half full.

She reaches for it.

Stops.

Looks at the glass.

The surface of the water is trembling. Barely. Concentric rings expanding from the center.

She didn't feel anything.

Loretta is frozen. Ears flat. Staring at the wall.

Destiny looks at her phone. Opens the USGS earthquake app.

A notification appears:

MINOR SEISMIC EVENT - MAGNITUDE 2.1 - TORRANCE COUNTY, NM - 16:38

She stares at the timestamp.

16:38.

The glass of water keeps trembling.

She doesn't drink it.

Gil at his desk, surrounded by Tommy's documents. The wall behind him, rebuilt.

A knock at the door.

He opens it. Destiny. She's holding a folder.

I didn't expect -

Can I come in?

He steps aside. She enters. Looks at the wall. At the documents

everywhere.

You're still doing this.

I found evidence. Real evidence. Falsified pressure data, disposal

volumes -

I know.

Gil stops.

What do you mean you know?

Destiny sets the folder on his desk. Opens it.

Inside: veterinary records. Lab results. A highlighted line: ELEVATED CREATININE. RECOMMEND FURTHER TESTING.

Loretta. My cat. She's had kidney problems for two years. The vet

couldn't explain it. She's an indoor cat. Eats premium food. No reason

for it.

She pulls out another document.

Then I started asking around. My neighbor's dog. Same thing. The woman

downstairs? Her son has nosebleeds. Every week. No explanation.

Destiny -

I wasn't investigating FOR you, Dad. I was investigating AGAINST you.

She looks at him. Her eyes are wet.

I wanted you to be crazy. I NEEDED you to be crazy. Because if you're

not crazy, then -

She stops. Looks at the wall. At the pattern.

Then it's real. And if it's real, then I've been drinking that water.

I've been BREATHING that air. For three years.

I'm sorry.

Don't be sorry. Be right.

She looks at him.

Are you right, Dad? About all of it?

Gil looks at the wall. At the evidence. At his daughter.

I don't know. I think so. But I've thought so before.

What's different this time?

This time I have documents. Not patterns. Documents. Things that can

be verified. Things that don't require you to believe me.

Destiny looks at the folder she brought.

What do you need?

I need someone who isn't me. Someone who can look at this and tell me

if I'm seeing what's there or seeing what I want to see.

Someone like me.

Someone exactly like you.

Destiny picks up a document. Starts reading.

Then show me. All of it. From the beginning.

Gil looks at her. At his daughter. Sitting in his trailer. Willing to

look.

He pulls up a chair.

It starts with a number.

Wade on the phone. Caroline is upstairs. He can hear her moving around, getting ready for bed.

The audit passed. Three to two... No, I couldn't stop it... He

had documentation. Invoices with blank verification lines. The council

couldn't ignore it.

He listens.

I understand the concern, but there's nothing I can do. The audit is

happening. An independent firm. We have no control over who they

select.

Longer pause.

I'm not saying that. I'm saying we need to be prepared. If they find

irregularities...

His voice drops even lower.

I know what's at stake. But I can't make this disappear. He's got

forty-three votes and a grudge and he's not going to stop until he

finds something.

He listens.

What do you mean, "handle it"?

His expression changes. Fear.

I'm not comfortable with... No. That's not... We're talking

about a mayor. An elected official. You can't just...

He stops.

I understand. I'll... I'll think about it.

He hangs up.

Stands in the kitchen. Breathing hard.

Caroline appears in the doorway.

Who was that?

Work.

It's midnight.

The earthquake. The council meeting. People are upset.

You look scared.

I'm not scared.

Wade.

I'm fine.

He's not fine. She can see it. He can see that she can see it.

The prescription. I got it filled today.

I thought there was a problem with the authorization.

There was. And then there wasn't. Someone made a call.

Who?

I don't know. The pharmacy just said it was resolved. No co-pay. No

authorization needed. Full coverage.

That's... good.

Is it?

Why wouldn't it be?

Because nothing is free, Wade. Someone paid for this. Someone who

wants something from you.

You don't know that.

I know you. I know that look. I know what it means when you can't

meet my eyes.

Long pause.

I'm trying to protect us.

From what?

From... consequences.

Whose consequences?

Everyone's.

She looks at him. The man she married. The man who's kept secrets for

so long that he's forgotten what truth feels like.

I'm going to bed.

Caroline -

Whatever you're doing, Wade. Whatever you've done. It's not worth

it. It's never been worth it.

She goes upstairs.

Wade stands alone.

He pulls out his phone. Looks at a contact labeled RAYBORN EXEC.

Doesn't call.

Puts the phone away.

Sits down at the kitchen table.

Puts his head in his hands.

Gil goes door to door with Elena. A box of sample bottles. Labels. A clipboard. Evidence bags. And the old Geiger counter from his shelf - unexpected weight in his hands.

They collect water from each affected household. Fourteen samples. Fourteen brown jugs of liquid that should be clear.

At two of the worst houses, Elena leads him downstairs. A crack runs through the basement wall. Gil puts on a paper mask, scrapes a teaspoon of gray grit from the seam into a ziplock bag, and holds the Geiger counter close. A slow click. Then another.

At each house, the same story. The same frustration. The same fear.

HOMEOWNER 1 My kids won't drink it. They think it's poison.

HOMEOWNER 2 The utility says it's fine. You tell me - does this look fine to you?

HOMEOWNER 3 I've been boiling it for six months. Buying bottled water for drinking. Do you know how much that costs?

HOMEOWNER 4 My husband works for Rayborn. He's afraid to say anything. Afraid we'll lose the house.

HOMEOWNER 5 I don't know who to trust anymore. The town. The state. The company. Everyone's lying.

Gil writes everything down.

When they finish, Elena drives him to the shipping center.

How long for results?

Two weeks.

And then?

And then we'll know what's in the water. And we'll have proof that

nobody can deny.

What do you think they'll find?

I don't know. But I know what I hope they don't find.

What's that?

Radiation.

Elena looks at him sharply.

The injection wells are disposing of wastewater from oil and gas

operations. Some of that wastewater is naturally radioactive. If

they're exceeding their disposal limits - if they're pumping more

than the wells can handle - the radiation could be leaching into the

groundwater.

Like your mother.

Not the same thing. But related. Same principle. Same pattern.

Contaminate the environment. Deny the victims. Delay until they give

up or die.

But the Geiger counter clicked in my basement. Away from the water.

That's what worries me. The injection wells might not be the only source. When the ground shakes, it opens pathways. Fractures. And whatever's already in the fill - legacy material from before anyone was testing - that can migrate too.

You're saying there might be two problems.

I'm saying the quakes might be connecting them.

You really believe that.

I've seen it happen. Again and again. Different places. Different

poisons. Same system.

And the number? 1-6-3-8?

I don't know. Maybe it means something. Maybe it's just... how I

notice. A way of seeing what's hidden in plain sight.

You're not crazy.

How do you know?

Because crazy people don't question whether they're crazy. They're

certain. You're the least certain person I've ever met.

That's not reassuring.

It wasn't meant to be.

She smiles. Slightly.

Thank you. For doing this. For listening. For showing up.

I got forty-three votes. Showing up is the least I can do.

You say that a lot. Forty-three votes.

It's what I have. It's who I am.

No. It's what you tell yourself. Who you are is more than that.

Gil doesn't answer.

He ships the samples. Two weeks until answers.

Gil at the wall, organizing Tommy's documents.

He's found more anomalies. More numbers that don't quite fit.

An invoice for \$8,361. Half of \$16,722 - which is almost \$16,380, but not quite.

A permit numbered #2024-8361. The inversion of 1638.

A pressure reading logged at 08:36:01. Again, the inversion.

He writes on a card:

8361 ≠ 1638 INVERSION? SECOND PATTERN?

Pins it to the wall.

Stares.

There's something else. Something I'm not seeing.

He picks up the photograph. The one from the storage unit. June 16,

2038. "THE FIRST FAULT LINE."

He looks at the date again.

June 16, 2038.

6/16/38.

6-16-38.

61638.

He writes it down. Looks at it.

Not 1638. 61638.

Or: 6, 1638.

Or: 6 + 1638 = 1644.

Or: 6 × 1638 = 9828.

None of it makes sense.

He flips the photograph over. On the back, in pencil, barely visible: a

watermark. "AGUAVERDE COPY CENTER."

Someone made this. Locally. Recently.

Not a prophecy. A provocation. Someone wanted him to chase this number instead of looking at something else.

He puts down the photograph.

Looks at the wall.

All the patterns. All the numbers. All the connections.

And then: all the anomalies. The inversions. The near-misses.

Two patterns. Dolores said there might be two.

He writes on a card:

SYSTEM A: 1638 SYSTEM B: 8361? TWO SETS OF BOOKS?

Pins it to the wall.

Then looks at the card and laughs.

Two accounting systems. Two ways of hiding. Now I really sound like an auditor.

But he doesn't take it down.

A small office. The Aguaverde Gazette. Two desks, one occupied. MARLENE VALDEZ (40s) sits behind a computer, surrounded by coffee cups and notepads. She's been here twenty years. She's seen everything.

Gil enters.

Mayor Padilla.

Ms. Valdez.

Marlene. I've been expecting you.

Have you?

You're the most interesting thing that's happened in this town in

years. The podcast guy. The forty-three votes. The council meeting. Of

course I've been expecting you.

I have information.

I assumed.

And I need to get it published. Before the audit is complete. Before

someone tries to make it disappear.

What kind of information?

Gil opens his binder. Pulls out copies of Tommy's documents.

Falsified pressure data. Exceeding disposal limits. Internal memos

showing management knew.

Marlene takes the documents. Flips through them.

Where did you get these?

A source. Someone who used to work for Rayborn.

On the record?

Absolutely not.

Then I can't use them.

You can report that they exist. You can report that someone is making

allegations. You can file FOIA requests based on specific documents

and see what the company provides.

That's journalism 101.

I know. That's why I'm here.

Marlene looks at him. Appraising.

You listen to a lot of podcasts about how to take down corporations?

I made a lot of podcasts about how they took down my mother.

The RECA case. 1638.

You've done your research.

I told you - you're interesting.

She sets down the documents.

Here's the problem. Rayborn is the largest advertiser in this paper.

Has been for twenty years. If I run this story, I lose that

advertising. If I lose that advertising, I might lose the paper.

So you won't run it.

I didn't say that.

She looks at him.

I've watched Wade Sutter not ask questions for twelve years. I've

watched this town take Rayborn's money and look the other way. I've

watched people get sick and get ignored and get dismissed. And I've

kept my head down because I had a paper to run and a life to live.

And now?

Now there's a 4.1 earthquake and fourteen houses with brown water and

a mayor who actually seems to give a damn.

I got forty-three votes.

Yeah, I know. You mention it a lot. It's a good line.

Self-deprecating but with teeth.

It's not a line. It's the truth.

The truth is you're asking the questions nobody else will ask.

That's worth more than forty-three votes.

She picks up the documents again.

I'll need time. A week to verify what I can, file the FOIAs, build a

story that Rayborn's lawyers can't tear apart.

A week.

And you don't talk to anyone else. No other outlets. No social media.

This is my story until I publish.

Agreed.

And one more thing.

What?

The pattern stuff. The number. 1-6-3-8. Keep it out of my story.

Why?

Because it makes you sound crazy. Because it gives Rayborn's lawyers

a hook to dismiss everything else. "The conspiracy podcaster thinks a

number controls the government." You want this story to land, you

keep the numerology to yourself.

It's not numerology.

I know. But that's how it'll play. Trust me. I've been doing this a

long time.

Gil considers.

Fine. The story focuses on the procedural failures. The blank

verification lines. The falsified data. The exceeding of disposal

limits.

Exactly. Boring. Verifiable. Actionable. That's how you win.

Boring is where they hide.

Is that from your podcast?

It's something I'm learning.

She extends her hand.

One week, Mayor. Then we blow this up.

They shake.

Destiny at her station. Filing paperwork. The kind of mindless work that lets your thoughts wander.

She's thinking about her father. About the council meeting. About the news coverage that's starting to spread.

A colleague passes by - JANET, 50s, senior nurse.

Your dad's the mayor, right?

Unfortunately.

He's stirring up trouble with Rayborn.

He's asking questions.

Same thing, around here.

Destiny doesn't respond.

My sister works for them. Admin. She says people are nervous.

Management's been having a lot of closed-door meetings since the

council session.

That's not my business.

Your father made it everyone's business.

Destiny stands.

I need to file these.

She walks away. Into the records room.

Starts filing. Alphabetical. Mindless.

Then she stops.

She's looking at a folder. RAYBORN ENERGY - COMMUNITY HEALTH GRANT.

The folder that funds forty percent of this clinic.

She opens it.

Inside: grant documents. Payment records. Correspondence.

And an invoice.

ENERGY FOUNDATION COMMUNITY HEALTH INITIATIVE - ANNUAL GRANT

\$163,800.00

Destiny stares at the number.

\$163,800.

She knows that number. Her father mentioned it. One of the invoices he

found.

She flips through more documents.

Another invoice: \$81,900.

Another: \$49,140.

Another: \$16,380.

All the same amounts her father has been tracking.

She sits down on the floor of the records room.

The clinic. Her clinic. Her salary. Her health insurance. All funded by the same money her father is investigating.

She's part of it. She's been part of it all along.

She pulls out her phone.

Starts to text her father.

Stops.

Puts the phone away.

She doesn't know what to do with this.

Two weeks later.

Gil opens an envelope from the lab. The water test results.

He reads.

His face goes pale.

LEVELS OF: - Barium - Radium-226 - Radium-228 - Total

DISSOLVED SOLIDS - CHLORIDES - BROMIDES

A second page. Smaller print. An add-on Elena talked the lab into running: FOUNDATION DUST SAMPLE. A highlighted note: ELEVATED GAMMA ACTIVITY - CONSISTENT WITH OLDER CONTAMINATION. Gil stares at it, like the house itself just tested positive.

RECOMMENDATION: Water unsafe for drinking. Further testing recommended. Notify state environmental agency.

He reads it again.

Radium-226. Radium-228.

Radioactive isotopes.

The same isotopes that appear in oil and gas wastewater.

The same isotopes that have been linked to cancer in communities near disposal sites.

He picks up his phone. Calls Elena.

The results are back.

And?

You need to stop drinking the water. Everyone on Oak Street needs to

stop. Now.

Silence.

How bad?

Radioactive. Barium. Radium.

Silence.

Like your mother.

Yes.

What do we do?

We go public. Today.

Steps of Town Hall. Microphones. Cameras from three stations.

Gil at the microphones. Elena beside him. Oak Street residents behind them.

Marlene's story broke this morning. Now Gil has something to add.

Good morning. I'm Gil Padilla. Mayor of Aguaverde.

He doesn't say '1638.' Not here. Not to them.

Two weeks ago, I commissioned independent water testing for fourteen

households on Oak Street.

He holds up the lab report.

Every sample showed elevated levels of radium-226, radium-228, and

barium. Radioactive contaminants.

And we submitted dust scraped from cracks in those foundations. That

came back elevated too. Not just in the water. In the houses. In what

they're built on.

Murmurs.

The people of Oak Street have been drinking radioactive water. For

months. Nobody tested. Nobody told them.

He sets down the report.

I'm calling on the state to conduct emergency testing. I'm calling

on the EPA to investigate. And I'm calling on Rayborn Energy to

suspend operations until the safety of our water can be verified.

REPORTER 1 Mayor Padilla, Rayborn denies any connection. How do you respond?

With data. Independent lab. Certified results.

REPORTER 2 Some have criticized your investigation as politically motivated.

I got forty-three votes in a special election nobody attended. I

don't have politics. I have documentation.

REPORTER 3 There are reports you believe in a conspiracy theory involving a four-digit number. Care to comment?

Sandra is standing to the side. She shifts her weight. Her hand moves

toward Gil's binder - not touching, just... present.

Gil sees it.

I believe in verification. I believe when someone says there's no

problem, you check for yourself.

REPORTER 3 But the number - 1638 - you've discussed it on your podcast -

Today I'm discussing radium in drinking water. That's the story.

He turns to Elena.

This is Elena Marsh. She's lived at Oak Street for thirty-four years.

She deserves to speak.

He steps back.

Elena steps forward. Holds up her jug of brown water.

My name is Elena Marsh. This is what comes out of my tap.

She doesn't elaborate. She doesn't need to.

The mayor showed up. He asked questions. That's more than anyone else

did.

She sets down the jug.

The cameras flash.

In the back: Wade, watching. A man in an expensive suit beside him. They whisper. They leave.

Gil sees them go.

His hand finds his binder. The number written on the first page, visible through the plastic.

He flips it to a blank page.

Gil's phone hasn't stopped buzzing. Calls from reporters. Calls from other mayors. Calls from environmental groups.

He ignores most of them.

He's at the wall. Looking at everything.

The invoices. The permits. The earthquake timeline. The water test results. Tommy's documents. The photograph with the impossible date.

And the anomalies. The inversions. The numbers that don't fit.

His phone buzzes again. Destiny.

He answers.

Hey.

I saw the press conference.

And?

You did good, Dad.

Gil is quiet for a moment.

Thank you.

I mean it. I've been... I've been hard on you. About the pattern

stuff. The podcast. The obsession. But this - what you did

today - this mattered.

It's not over.

I know. But you proved something. You showed that asking questions

matters. That documentation matters. That one person can -

Forty-three people.

What?

Forty-three people elected me. It wasn't just me. It was everyone who

voted. Everyone who showed up at the council meeting. Everyone who

gave water samples. I'm just the one with the microphone.

That's... very humble of you.

I don't feel humble. I feel scared.

Why?

Because this is when it gets dangerous. This is when people start to

push back. This is when accidents happen.

Dad -

I'm not being paranoid. I've seen it before. You ask questions, you

get transferred to West Texas. You keep asking, you lose everything.

Tommy Benavides. The name Rick gave me. He lost his job, his marriage,

his life. All because he told the truth.

Is that what's going to happen to you?

I don't know. I hope not. But I need you to know... if something

happens to me -

Dad, stop.

If something happens to me, the documentation is here. The wall. The

binder. Everything is labeled, organized, indexed. You can find it.

You can continue it.

I don't want to continue it. I want you to be safe.

I'm trying. But I can't stop now. Not when we're this close.

Close to what?

Close to the truth.

Long silence.

Dad. I found something.

What?

At the clinic. In the records. The Rayborn funding. The grants that

pay for our work. The amounts match. \$163,800. \$81,900.

\$16,380. All the same numbers you've been tracking.

Gil goes still.

They're everywhere.

Yeah.

What are you going to do?

I don't know. I work there, Dad. If I say something -

You don't have to say anything. You don't have to be part of this.

I'm already part of it. I've been taking their money for three

years. Does that make me complicit?

No. It makes you an employee at a clinic that helps people. That's

not a crime.

But taking money from a company that's poisoning people -

You didn't know. Nobody knew.

You knew. Or you suspected.

I suspected. I didn't have proof until now.

And now that you have proof?

Now I make sure it can't be buried.

Wade alone. Late. The building is empty.

His phone rings. He looks at the caller ID. Grimaces. Answers.

Yes?

The press conference was unfortunate.

I couldn't stop it.

You didn't try.

What was I supposed to do? The lab results are public. The story is

out. There's no putting that back in the box.

The mayor is a problem.

The mayor is a symptom. The problem is that Rayborn exceeded its

disposal limits and contaminated the water supply.

Allegedly.

The lab results aren't allegations. They're facts.

Facts can be interpreted. Facts can be contextualized. Facts can be

challenged.

You're going to challenge independent lab results?

We're going to question the methodology. The sample collection. The

chain of custody. The mayor's political motivations.

That's not going to work.

It's worked before.

Not this time. The story is too big. The Albuquerque stations are

covering it. It's going national by tomorrow.

Then we need to contain it.

How?

The mayor's reputation. His podcast. The conspiracy theories.

There's plenty of material there.

He didn't mention the number today. He kept it to data and

documentation. He's smarter than he looks.

Then find something else.

There's nothing else.

Everyone has something. Find it.

The line goes dead.

Wade sits in the darkness.

He looks at the photo on his desk. Caroline. From years ago. Before the

cancer. Before everything.

He opens a drawer. Inside: a file. Old documents. An election

certification from last month.

He looks at the numbers.

Something occurs to him.

He picks up his phone. Calls Dolores.

It's Wade. I need to see the election records. From the special

election. The original count.

Dolores at her station. After hours. The building should be empty, but here she is.

Her phone rings. Wade.

She looks at the screen for a long moment.

Then answers.

Council President.

I need to see the election records. The original count from the

special election.

It's after hours.

I know what time it is.

The records are sealed until the certification period expires.

I have authority -

Section 7.3. Sealed for thirty days post-certification. The

certification period ends next week.

Dolores. I'm asking as a friend.

We're not friends, Council President. We're colleagues. And

colleagues follow procedures.

There's something wrong with those numbers. Something that doesn't

add up.

The numbers add up to forty-three. That's what the record shows.

Is that what actually happened?

Long silence.

I stamp things. I don't question them.

You've been in that office for thirty-seven years. You know

everything that goes on in this building. If there's something wrong

with those numbers -

The numbers are what they are.

That's not an answer.

It's the only one you're getting.

She hangs up.

Sits in the darkness.

Looks at the locked file cabinet where the election records are kept.

She has a key. She has all the keys.

She picks up her knitting.

The pattern emerging from her needles is wrong. She's made a mistake somewhere. The stitches don't line up.

She unravels the last few rows.

Starts again.

Emergency response vehicles. State Environmental Agency vans. News trucks.

The press conference worked. The state is here.

Gil watches from the sidewalk as technicians in hazmat suits collect water samples. Official samples this time. Samples that will go into official records.

Elena stands beside him.

You did this.

We did this. All forty-three of us.

You keep saying that.

It's true.

It's deflection.

Credit makes you a target.

You're already a target.

She's right. He knows she's right.

A state official approaches. DR. SARAH CHEN (40s), from the Environment Department.

DR. CHEN

Mayor Padilla?

Yes.

DR. CHEN

Dr. Sarah Chen. State Environmental Division. I'm leading the

emergency assessment.

Thank you for coming.

DR. CHEN

We should have been here months ago.

What caused the delay?

DR. CHEN

The usual. Budget constraints. Complaints that don't rise to the

level of investigation.

Until they do.

DR. CHEN

Until they do.

She looks at the scene. The technicians. The cracked adobe walls.

DR. CHEN (CONT'D)

Your independent testing - the lab you used - it's solid. The results will hold up.

The question is source.

DR. CHEN

Right. We need to show a pathway.

She pulls out a tablet. Brings up a diagram. Shows it to Gil and Elena.

A cross-section: injection well at 8,000 feet. Aquifer at 200 feet. Between them: rock layers. And cutting through the rock: fractures. Old well bores. Dotted lines showing potential migration routes.

DR. CHEN (CONT'D)

Three potential pathways we've identified so far.

Old wells?

DR. CHEN

From the fifties. Never properly sealed.

Elena studies the diagram.

So the poison comes up through the cracks.

DR. CHEN

That's what we're testing.

The disposal volumes are falsified.

She looks at him sharply.

DR. CHEN

You have documentation?

Internal records. Rayborn exceeded their limits by as much as 60%.

DR. CHEN

Source?

Someone who used to work there. Won't testify.

DR. CHEN

Then it's hearsay. Useful for investigation, not prosecution.

Can you compare the official records to what the geology says they

should be producing?

DR. CHEN

We can try.

Then try. Please.

She nods.

DR. CHEN

We'll be here at least a week.

Thank you.

DR. CHEN

Don't thank me yet.

She walks back to her team.

Gil and Elena watch her go.

The past coming up through the ground.

That's how it works.

He watches Dr. Chen.

Something about her manner. The institutional distance. The institutional tone. Always the same.

But something about the name stays with him.

Wade at his desk. Documents spread before him.

He's been doing his own research. His own calculations.

He's found something.

1638 ÷ 43 = 38.093...

1638 = (38 × 43) + 4

A remainder. Four extra.

But if the vote count was different...

1638 ÷ 42 = 39

Clean. No remainder.

1638 = 39 × 42

He stares at the math.

If Gil got forty-two votes instead of forty-three, the number divides evenly into his mother's case number.

He would be inside the pattern. Part of it. Not investigating it - constituting it.

Wade picks up his phone. Calls a number.

I found something.

What?

The mayor's vote count. It might be wrong. Off by one.

How does that help us?

If we can prove the election was miscounted - if we can show that Gil

wasn't legitimately elected -

He got all the votes. There were only forty-three ballots.

But what if one of those ballots was invalid? Or miscounted? What if

the true number was forty-two?

That's a thin reed.

It's something. If we can challenge the election, delay his

authority, tie him up in legal proceedings -

Do you have proof?

Not yet. The records are sealed for another week. But someone changed

the count. Someone added a vote or miscounted a ballot. I know it.

How do you know?

Because the number. 1638. If you divide it by 43, you get a remainder.

But if you divide it by 42, it's clean. Someone protected him by

making his count inexact.

Long silence.

That sounds insane.

Maybe. But Gil believes in the number. He's built his whole

investigation around it. If we can show that his own election is part

of the pattern - that he's not outside it but inside it -

It would destroy his credibility.

It would destroy everything he's built.

Get me proof. Get me the election records. Then we'll talk.

The line goes dead.

Wade looks at the math on his desk.

1638 ÷ 42 = 39

He doesn't know if it means anything. But he's going to find out.

2 AM. A knock.

Gil opens the door. Dolores. No knitting. No smile.

Finish it.

What?

She enters. Sees the wall. Studies it.

The division. Finish it.

Gil reaches into his pocket. The card from Scene 1. Creased now. Worn at

the edges. He's been carrying it.

1638 ÷ 43 =

I don't -

Now.

Something in her voice. Gil finds a pen. Scrap paper.

He works the calculation. Longhand.

Forty-three into 163... three times. Remainder 34. Bring down the

8...

He writes. Crosses out. Writes again.

Eight times. 344. Remainder...

He stops writing.

Four.

Silence.

How many times did they deny her?

Gil doesn't answer. He's staring at the number.

The count was forty-two.

What?

I added one.

DOLORES (CONT'D) Forty-two is an anecdote. Forty-three is a pattern

you can't dismiss.

DOLORES (CONT'D) They don't come for grief. They come for numbers.

DOLORES (CONT'D) Oak Street sits right on the baseline. The wind

takes what it takes - then we build on it and call it home.

Gil sits. Heavily.

You -

Do the other math.

His hands are shaking. He writes:

1638 ÷ 42 =

Works it.

Thirty-nine. Clean.

No remainder.

Long silence.

You committed a felony.

I wanted you to win.

She doesn't move. The line hangs there. A felony confession. A love

confession. Both.

Then she turns toward the door.

From what?

She doesn't answer. She's already leaving.

Gil stands alone.

He walks to the wall. Finds a clear space.

Pins the creased card.

Picks up the marker. Completes the equation - slowly. The r takes longest. Like it hurts.

1638 ÷ 43 = 38 r 4

He writes nothing beneath it.

He touches his mother's photograph.

His hand is shaking.

HUMANIZED)

The sky is wrong.

Dark clouds building on the horizon. Monsoon season is early this year. The weather has been strange - everyone says so. The earthquakes. The contamination. The sense that something is shifting beneath the surface.

Gil stands outside his trailer, watching the storm approach.

His phone buzzes.

Elena: News says there's a big storm coming. You okay out there?

Gil: I'm fine. Stay safe.

Elena: You too.

He puts down the phone.

The wind is picking up. The first drops of rain.

Behind him, the wall is visible through the window. The pattern he's built. The evidence he's gathered. The questions he still can't answer.

He looks at the storm.

Thinks about his mother. About the fallout that looked like snow. About the claims denied and the truth deferred and the patterns that run through everything.

He thinks about the real number. Forty-two.

He thinks about what Dolores said. "I added one."

He thinks about what it means to be inside something you're trying to understand.

The rain starts in earnest.

He goes inside.

The trailer shakes slightly in the wind. The corkboard rattles.

His mother's photograph is still cracked. Still looking at him with that patient expression.

He sits down at his desk.

Picks up a pen.

Writes on a card:

42.

Stares at it.

Writes on another card:

r = 4

Pins them both to the wall. Next to the equation.

Writes on a third card:

What now?

Doesn't pin this one. Holds it.

The storm intensifies outside.

Lightning. Thunder. Rain pounding on the metal roof.

Gil sits in the noise.

He's scared. He admits it to himself.

Not of the storm. Not of Wade. Not even of the pattern.

Scared of what comes next. Scared of what he might find. Scared of what it means to be part of something you can't understand.

But he's not going to stop.

He picks up his phone.

Types a message to Destiny:

I love you. Whatever happens, I love you.

Sends it.

Types a message to Elena:

Stay strong. We're almost there.

Sends it.

Types a message to Marlene:

The election count was wrong. 42, not 43. Someone changed it.

Hesitates.

Doesn't send it.

Deletes it.

Some truths aren't ready yet.

The storm rages.

Gil looks at the card in his hand.

What now?

He pins it to the wall.

Looks at his mother's photograph.

Forty-two votes, Mom. Let's see if that's enough.

FADE OUT.

The storm has passed. The town is battered but standing.

Trees down. Power lines hanging. Debris in the streets.

But it's quiet now. The kind of quiet that comes after something has broken.

Gil walks through town. Surveying the damage.

On Oak Street, the situation is worse.

Several houses have visible damage. One has a tree through the roof. Another has a collapsed porch.

And Elena's house - 1638 Oak Street - has a new crack in the foundation. Wider than before. Running from the basement to the first floor.

Elena stands in her front yard, looking at it.

Elena.

She turns.

It got worse.

I can see.

The storm was just water and wind. But the house - it shook. During

the night. Like there was another earthquake.

There was.

I didn't hear about it.

Small. 2.9. Just after midnight. The storm covered it.

So it wasn't the rain.

It was both. The ground is destabilized. The water makes it worse. The

earthquakes make it worse. Everything makes everything worse.

What am I supposed to do?

Document it. Photograph everything. File with the state. Add it to the

record.

More documentation.

It's all we have.

She looks at him. Tired. Scared.

Is it enough?

I don't know.

You're supposed to say yes. You're supposed to be inspiring.

I got forty -

He stops.

I got... elected by people who wanted answers. I'm trying to find

them. But I can't promise they'll be the answers we want.

What's wrong?

Nothing.

You started to say "forty-three" and you stopped.

It's nothing.

Gil.

He looks at her. At this woman who's trusted him. Who's followed him.

Who's put her faith in a man who got forty-three votes - or forty-two - and a binder.

The number might be wrong.

What number?

The votes. Forty-three. It might have been forty-two.

Does that matter?

I don't know. But it's... it's connected to the pattern. The

1638. IF THE VOTE COUNT WAS FORTY-TWO, THEN 1638 DIVIDES EVENLY INTO

IT.

Which means...

Which means what?

I don't know. I don't know what any of it means.

Then why are you telling me?

Because I'm tired of hiding things. Because you deserve to know the

truth. All of it. Even the parts that don't make sense.

Elena looks at him. Then at her cracked house. Then back at him.

My mother-in-law used to say: the truth is like water. It finds a way

through.

Even through rock.

Especially through rock. Given enough time.

We might not have enough time.

Then we do what we can with the time we have.

She picks up her phone.

I'm calling the other Oak Street families. We need to assess damage.

Coordinate our documentation. Make sure nobody falls through the

cracks.

That's a lot of work.

It's what needs doing.

You're remarkable, you know that?

I'm a woman who wants clean water and a house that doesn't fall

down. That's not remarkable. That's basic.

In this town, it's remarkable.

She almost smiles.

Go do your job, Mayor. I'll handle things here.

Gil nods.

Walks back toward town.

Wade is waiting.

He looks like he hasn't slept. His suit is rumpled. His eyes are red.

When Gil enters, Wade doesn't stand.

Close the door.

Gil closes it.

I know about the count.

What count?

Don't. The election. Forty-two votes, not forty-three. Someone

changed it.

How did you -

I did the math. 1638 divided by 43 leaves a remainder. Divided by 42,

it's clean. Your whole obsession with the number - it should have

included your own election. It didn't. Which means someone hid it

from you.

And you think this matters because -

Because it proves you're not who you say you are. Not forty-three

votes. Forty-two.

A lie I didn't tell.

A lie you benefited from.

A single vote. You think that changes anything?

I think it changes how people see you. The conspiracy podcaster who

missed the conspiracy in his own election.

That's your play? Discredit me?

It's a start.

And the contamination? The radioactive water? Does discrediting me

make any of that go away?

It makes people question the source.

The message isn't from me. It's from an independent lab. From state

inspectors. From whistleblower documents.

Documents you obtained. Investigations you prompted.

And people are still drinking radioactive water.

Silence.

You know, I thought this was about money. About Rayborn paying you to

look the other way. But it's not, is it?

Wade doesn't respond.

Caroline. Her medication. The insurance problems that magically

resolved.

Leave Caroline out of this.

She's already in it. She's been in it for years.

Wade stands. Slowly.

You don't know anything about my wife.

I know you love her. I know you want to protect her.

Get out of my office.

I know the price of that protection is fourteen houses with brown

water.

Get out.

And people getting sick from contamination that you helped cover up.

I didn't cover up anything.

You signed the invoices. You blocked the investigations. You refused

the records requests.

Wade picks up his phone. Dials.

Security? I need someone removed from my office.

This isn't your office. It belongs to the people of Aguaverde. All

forty-two of the ones who elected me.

He walks out.

Wade stands alone.

He looks at the photo of Caroline on his desk.

His hand is shaking.

One week later.

The room is packed. Standing room only. News cameras from four states.

Dr. Sarah Chen is at the podium. The state assessment is complete.

DR. CHEN

Our investigation confirms the findings of the independent testing commissioned by Mayor Padilla. Water samples from Oak Street and surrounding areas show elevated levels of radium-226, radium-228, barium, and other contaminants consistent with oil and gas wastewater.

Murmurs in the crowd.

DR. CHEN (CONT'D)

Geological analysis indicates a high probability that the contamination originates from the Rayborn injection well site approximately five miles southwest of the affected area. Pressure data and disposal volume records provided by the company do not match our independent measurements.

Louder murmurs.

DR. CHEN (CONT'D)

Based on these findings, the State Environment Division is recommending a comprehensive safety review of all Rayborn injection well sites in the region. Our report will be submitted to the commission for action.

Dr. Chen, what's the timeline for review?

DR. CHEN

Ninety to one hundred eighty days.

And in the meantime? Are the wells still operating?

DR. CHEN

That determination will be made by the commission based on our

recommendations. We've recommended suspension pending review, but the

final decision is not ours to make.

So the wells could continue operating?

DR. CHEN

That's a question for the commission.

The room erupts. Questions shouted. Cameras flashing.

Gil sits in the back. Watching.

Elena is beside him.

That's it?

That's it.

They're not shutting them down?

They're recommending. The commission decides.

When?

Ninety to one hundred eighty days.

And we keep drinking the water?

Alternative sources will be provided. That's in the report.

Bottled water. While they decide.

While they decide.

Elena is quiet. Processing.

You said documentation matters.

It does.

This is documentation.

Yes.

But it doesn't fix anything.

Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

Maybe not.

She looks at him.

Then what was the point?

The record. Someone had to make a record.

What about the cracks? The foundations? That's not in their report.

The injection pressure destabilized the substrate. Once the fractures formed, whatever's in the fill had a pathway.

A pathway to what?

The water table. And everything above it.

The fill sand. From before the EPA existed.

From before Trinity.

Elena is silent. Processing the weight of it.

The point is it's on the record now. The contamination. The falsified

data. The pathway. All of it. Whatever happens next, that can't be

undone.

Is that enough?

Gil looks at the podium. At Dr. Chen answering questions. At the

reporters and the cameras and the machinery of documentation.

It's what we have.

Wade at his desk. A prepared statement in front of him.

He hasn't delivered it yet.

A knock at the door.

Caroline enters.

I heard about the state report.

Everyone has.

It's over, isn't it?

Probably.

What are you going to do?

Wade looks at the statement.

Step down. Before they remove me.

And then?

I don't know.

Caroline sits down.

I've been thinking. About what you said. About the choices you made.

For me.

Caroline -

Let me finish.

He waits.

I've been sick for a long time. And you've been carrying that. The

cost. The fear. I've watched it change you.

I did what I had to do.

Did you?

He doesn't answer.

Without the money, we would have been poor. We would have struggled.

But we would have been honest.

You don't know that.

I know you. I know what you were. Before.

Silence.

I'm sorry.

I know.

She stands.

Sign the statement. Tell them whatever you're going to tell them. But

don't put this on me. I never asked you to compromise yourself.

She leaves.

Wade looks at the statement.

Picks up a pen.

Signs.

Wade at the microphones. Alone. No supporters. No allies.

The cameras are rolling.

Good afternoon. I'm announcing my resignation as Council President,

effective at the end of the month.

He pauses. Looks at his prepared statement.

I want to thank the people of Aguaverde for twelve years of service.

I'm stepping down to focus on prior family matters during a difficult

time.

He folds the statement. Puts it in his pocket.

I remain confident that the ongoing review will demonstrate that all

procedures were properly followed. I will not be taking questions.

He turns. Walks toward the door.

Mr. Sutter, are you facing criminal charges?

Wade stops. His hand on the door.

He turns back.

The reporters lean forward.

His mouth opens -

He's going to say something. Something true. You can see it forming behind his teeth. Twelve years of knowing. All of it pressing against his lips.

Then his eyes find something in the crowd: the Rayborn logo on a lanyard. A face he knows. A family he's protected.

His mouth closes.

He turns. Leaves.

Do you have a comment about Mayor Padilla's investigation?

He's gone.

The cameras hold on the empty podium.

In the back of the crowd, Marlene scribbles in her notebook.

That's the story.

Gil alone. The wall behind him. The equation at the center:

1638 ÷ 43 = 38 REMAINDER 4

Headlines pinned around it:

"STATE RECOMMENDS SAFETY REVIEW - TIMELINE: 90-180 DAYS"

"COUNCIL PRESIDENT RESIGNS - CITES FAMILY MATTERS"

He's not looking at the headlines. He's looking at the photograph. Rosa. His mother. The cracked glass.

He takes the photograph down. Holds it.

I used to tell people you were paranoid.

He sits. The photograph in his lap.

When you said the water tasted wrong. When you said you could feel it

in your bones. When you showed me the spots on your skin and asked if

I thought they were getting worse.

He touches the glass. The crack that runs through her face.

I said you were imagining things. I said it was stress. I said -

His voice breaks.

I said you were seeing patterns that weren't there.

He laughs. It's not a happy sound.

And then you died. And I started seeing them everywhere.

He sets the photograph on the desk. Looks at it.

Four claims. Four denials. "Insufficient documentation." You had

documentation, Mom. You had everything. You had thirty years of living

downwind and a body full of tumors and it wasn't enough.

He picks up the denial letter. Case #1638.

They gave you a number. Filed you away. And when you died, the number

was still there. Exposed. No amount of investigation will make you

less dead.

He pins the photograph back to the wall.

I didn't believe you. That's what I have to live with. My own mother

told me something was wrong and I told her she was crazy.

He touches the equation.

Thirty-eight remainder four. The four was you. Your four denials. I

was carrying you in every number and I didn't even know.

He steps back.

The report says 90 to 180 days. Then maybe something happens. Maybe

they do something. Maybe they don't.

He looks at the photograph.

But you're not coming back. Whatever they find, whatever they do - it

won't bring you back. It won't make me right. It just makes me the son

who didn't listen until it was too late.

His phone buzzes. He ignores it.

I'm sorry, Mom. For all of it. For not believing you. For making your

death about me.

He touches the cracked glass one more time.

I hope it was worth it. I hope the math was worth something.

The phone buzzes again. He finally looks.

Destiny: I'm outside.

Gil looks at the photograph. At the wall. At the pattern he's spent

years building.

She's here. Destiny. She looked at everything. She believes me.

He pauses.

She shouldn't have to. That's what you'd say, isn't it? She

shouldn't

have to believe her father. She should just have clean water and a

government that tells the truth.

He walks toward the door.

But she does believe me. And maybe that's enough. Maybe that's all any

of us get.

He opens the door.

A knock at the door.

Gil opens it. Destiny stands there. She looks tired. Worried. But present.

Hey.

Hey.

She comes in. Looks at the wall.

It's bigger than I remembered.

It grew.

Like everything you do.

She sits down on the small couch. He sits next to her.

I'm sorry. For doubting you. For being embarrassed.

You had every right to be embarrassed. I'm an embarrassing person.

You're a persistent person. There's a difference.

Not much of one.

She leans against him. The first physical contact they've had in

months.

I found something. At the clinic. The Rayborn funding. All the amounts

match the numbers you've been tracking.

I know. You told me.

I didn't tell you all of it.

She pulls out her phone. Shows him a photograph.

This is the original grant application. From when the clinic first

applied for Rayborn funding. The amount requested was \$160,000.

And they gave you \$163,800.

Exactly. \$3,800 more than requested. Nobody questioned it. Free

money.

But it fits the pattern.

It fits the pattern.

Gil looks at the photograph. At the numbers.

They're everywhere. In everything. Every institution, every

transaction, every system.

What does it mean?

I don't know.

Does it have to mean something?

I used to think so. I used to think the pattern was a code. A

signature. Evidence of some hidden coordination.

And now?

Now I think maybe it's just... how the system works. Not a

conspiracy. Not a plan. Just the way institutions behave when they're

built on denial. The same structures repeating. The same forms. The

same numbers.

That's less dramatic.

That's more frightening. A conspiracy can be exposed. A system

just... continues.

So what do we do?

Document. Record. Try to change what we can. Accept what we can't.

That doesn't sound like you.

I got forty-two votes.

What?

The real count. Forty-two, not forty-three. Someone changed it.

Who?

Dolores. The clerk. She was trying to protect me. To make my number

inexact so the pattern wouldn't include me.

But it includes you anyway.

It always did. Mom's case number. The whole reason I started looking.

So you're inside what you're investigating.

I always was. I just didn't know it.

Destiny is quiet for a moment.

Does that change anything?

It changes how I see myself. But not how I see the truth.

And the truth is?

The water is contaminated. The data was falsified. The institutions

failed. People got hurt. And someone - many someones - chose not to

look.

But the injection wells are recent. The foundation damage on Oak

Street goes back decades.

I know.

So what's under the foundations?

Gil looks at the map on the wall. The baseline wind path. The pins.

Fill sand. Every foundation on Oak Street - every slab, every

crawlspace - they used fill sand from the settling ponds east of here.

The ponds they drained after Trinity.

After the test.

The wind carried fallout down the baseline for twenty years. It

settled in those ponds. They drained them in the sixties, sold the

sand as fill. Cheap. Nobody asked where it came from.

And they built on it.

Everything along the baseline. The school. The clinic. Oak Street.

He looks down at the floor.

This trailer.

Destiny follows his gaze. The worn linoleum. The floor they're sitting

on.

We're on it right now.

We've been on it the whole time.

A long beat. The weight of it settling.

Does the state know?

They know about the water. The injection wells. That's what they're

investigating. The fill sand - that's harder. That's seventy years

of paperwork that doesn't exist anymore. But the Geiger readings

Elena's been getting in her basement... they're not from the

wells.

They're from what's underneath.

The wells cracked the slabs. The cracks let it up.

Destiny looks at the Geiger counter on the shelf. The one labeled ROSA.

Mom knew.

Mom suspected. She couldn't prove it. Nobody would test. Nobody would

look.

And you chose to look.

I couldn't help it. I've never been able to stop looking.

She takes his hand.

I know. It's why Mom left. Why I left. Why everyone eventually

leaves.

But you came back.

I came back because this is home. Because the clinic is here. Because

you're here.

I'm sorry I've been difficult.

You've been yourself. That's not the same as difficult.

It feels the same.

Maybe. But it's also what made you find the truth. So.

She looks at the wall.

What happens now?

The state investigation continues. The federal review. Rayborn's

lawyers will negotiate. There'll be fines. Maybe settlements. The

wells will stay closed until someone certifies they're safe.

And the people on Oak Street?

They'll get alternative water. Health screenings. Maybe compensation,

eventually. It'll take years. It always takes years.

And you?

I'm still the mayor. Still forty-two votes - or forty-three,

depending on who you ask.

What are you going to do?

Keep asking questions. Keep documenting. Keep showing up.

That sounds exhausting.

It is.

Is it worth it?

Gil looks at his mother's photograph.

She died waiting for someone to tell the truth. She never got her

answer. She never got justice.

He looks at his daughter.

But the people on Oak Street - they'll know what happened to them.

They'll have proof. They'll have something to fight with. That's

worth something.

That's worth everything.

Yeah. I think so too.

They sit together in silence.

Outside, the night is quiet. The storm has passed. The stars are visible.

Late afternoon. Golden hour light - the same light that fell on the bank steps.

Destiny walks toward her building. Keys in hand. A normal day. The kind of day she's had a thousand times.

She reaches the concrete steps. Four of them. Worn. Ordinary.

She climbs the first step. The second.

She stops.

Her eyes go to the concrete beneath her feet. A hairline crack runs across the third step. The edge of the step is slightly lower than it should be. Settlement. A quarter inch, maybe less. The kind of thing you'd never notice unless you were looking.

The kind of thing her father would notice. The kind of thing she used to train herself not to see. Before tonight. Before the couch. Before the fill sand.

We stay on her face. Something shifts. Quiet. Not dramatic - just recognition.

OPENS somewhere inside. FOOTSTEPS. Normal life continuing around her.

She reaches for her keys.

Stops.

Pockets them.

She turns away from the entrance. Walks back down the steps. She can't go home. Not to this home. Not anymore.

ON: THE STEPS.

The crack. The settlement. The thing that was always there.

Destiny is gone. We don't see where.

Destiny stands near the door. A bag at her feet. The couch where she slept is made - hospital corners, like she was never there.

Gil stands by the wall. Not looking at her. Looking at the pattern.

I called last night. While you were working.

Called who?

Sarah. From residency. She's chief of pediatrics now. In Denver.

Denver.

There's an opening. She said she'd hold it for me.

Gil still doesn't turn.

Because of me.

Because of the water. Because of what's under the houses. Because of what's under my house - the building I was going to make a life in.

Beat.

Because you were right.

She picks up her bag.

I believe you, Dad. That's why I'm leaving.

She moves toward the door. Stops. Reaches into her pocket.

She pulls out a single key. Her apartment key. Sets it on the table.

I can't go back there. The steps. The cracks. I see them everywhere now.

Beat.

That's your inheritance to me.

Destiny -

Come visit. When you can.

She looks at him one last time.

If you can.

She leaves.

Gil stands alone. The key on the table. The wall behind him.

He doesn't move for a long time.

TITLE CARD: THREE WEEKS LATER

The couch is empty. Not "someone just got up" empty. Uninhabited. No blanket. No pillow.

One key on the table. Destiny's apartment key. Untouched. A relic.

Gil at the wall.

The completed equation is there now. At the center.

1638 ÷ 43 = 38 r 4

He's added nothing around it. Just the math.

He pulls the election certification from a folder. Sandra's 42 crossed out. 43 written above it.

His thumb rubs the crossed-out number. As if trying to erase it.

The paper fibers catch. It won't come clean.

One vote.

He looks at his mother's photograph.

The invoices. The permits. The water tests. The falsified data.

The photograph dated 2038. Still unexplained. Still pinned there.

The \$16,379 invoice. Off by one. Never understood.

He just looks.

Then - slowly - his gaze shifts.

Toward us.

Not fully. A glance.

His eyes find the camera.

Forty-three.

A pause. The floor seems to shift.

Or forty-two. Depending on who you ask.

Longer pause.

Did you see it?

The camera holds.

He turns back to the wall.

Five seconds. Ten.

The equation. The photograph of Rosa. The map.

The camera doesn't stay on the wall.

It drifts down - past Gil's boots - past the worn linoleum -

through a seam in the floor and into the dark crawlspace beneath the trailer.

Raw sand. Foundation fill. Ordinary grit.

A slow click begins. The Geiger counter. One beat. Then another.

Above us, the wind presses along the baseline of the mountains like breath.

Then -

Silence.

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Below it, in small type: What's under your steps?

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