REGISTERED BROODSTOCK DISPOSITION OPTIONS.
The email came from an environmental consultant hired by Silver Ridge six months earlier.
One sentence was highlighted.
Relocation to Hayes Pond would eliminate community exposure while preserving the breeding population in a historically compatible receiving water.
I stared at the words.
Hayes Pond.
My pond.
Six months earlier.
Daniel leaned back.
"They did not choose your property in an emergency."
"They planned it."
"Yes."
"Without asking me."
"Yes."
He opened the next attachment.
A financial projection.
Silver Ridge Expansion Phase IV.
Estimated completed development value:
$24.6 million.
The map placed new residential lots across the former Riverstone corridor.
No aquatic reserve.
No breeding facility.
No agricultural designation.
Nothing but roads, lots, and landscaped drainage.
I looked at Daniel.
"Karen did not dump a problem into my pond."
"No."
"She moved an obstacle."
Daniel nodded.
"And then billed you for accepting it."
For the first time since this began, I laughed hard enough that Daniel looked worried.
Not because anything was funny.
Because sometimes arrogance becomes so complete it turns absurd.
Silver Ridge had chosen my pond months in advance.
They had moved registered stock onto my land without consent.
They had tried to make me pay $4,800 for the transfer.
Then, when I asked questions, they sued me for refusing to remove the same fish.
And their own court exhibits were now proving they had known exactly what they were doing.
The emergency hearing was scheduled for Friday morning at the county courthouse.
I had been in courtrooms before, mostly over contracts when I still owned my grading company, but I had never enjoyed them. Courtrooms reduce years of complicated behavior to stacks of paper and numbered exhibits. That can be frustrating when you want everyone to understand what something felt like. It is useful when what you need is for somebody to understand what actually happened.
Daniel told me to wear a jacket.
"I own one."
"Wear the one without paint on the sleeve."
"That narrows it down."
Ethan wanted to come.
Melissa, my daughter, said no immediately.
"He has school."
"It is a Friday," Ethan argued.
"School also happens on Friday."
"This is basically civics."
Melissa looked at me.
I raised both hands.
"Do not put me in the middle."
She did anyway.
"Dad."
"He should go to school."
Ethan stared at me as though I had betrayed the Constitution.
"I will tell you what happened afterward," I said.
"Every detail?"