That evening we stood together by the dock. Sandra had never heard Big Bertha's name without a smile before. Now she looked at the empty water and asked whether we should drain the lake. James shook his head. "Not without a plan," he said.
"Draining could move contaminated material downstream and cause new damage. We sample, contain where needed, remove what must be removed, and restore in stages. We don't solve one mistake with an impatient second mistake."
I looked at him and thought of my grandfather teaching me to wait for the fish. The old advice was finding new uses again. The man who had built this place had never imagined environmental contractors, online harassment campaigns, or an association representing 847 houses. But he had understood that forcing nature rarely ended well. I promised myself I would listen to the experts even when the waiting hurt.
The fish retrieval was the worst physical work I had done in years. Under supervision, contractors collected the dead animals, documented the numbers and species, and arranged for proper disposal. I helped with tasks that were safe for me to do, but I was not allowed to wade into contaminated sections or handle material without protection. At one point I found a small bluegill that had survived near an isolated inlet. I watched a biologist assess it and move it to a suitable holding system for further care.
One living fish did not change the damage. It did change something in me. Until then I had looked at the lake and seen only what Vivian had taken. That small fish reminded me the work ahead would be about whatever remained, however little, and what could safely come back. I went home that evening tired enough to sleep for nearly ten hours.
The next morning, Tom called. He had found Rebecca Torres, an environmental attorney in Raleigh whose practice involved contamination claims, water-system disputes, and the long difficult work of compelling restoration. He had explained the case to her without dramatic exaggeration, and she had agreed to review the documents. He warned me that she was expensive and not easily impressed by anger. I told him that sounded like exactly the person we needed.
Rebecca's office occupied the upper floor of a brick building with tall windows and an espresso machine that made better coffee than most restaurants. She read the opening documents while I sat across from her, trying not to interrupt. Tom was beside me, and Sandra had insisted on attending because anything that could affect our home and savings affected her equally. When Rebecca finished, she arranged the files into three piles.
"We have the property dispute," she said, touching the first. "We have the contamination and its consequences," she said, touching the second. "And we have the potential misconduct in the association's spending and decision-making," she said, touching the third. "These are connected, but they aren't interchangeable. Each will require its own evidence and its own procedure."