He had always believed disasters were measured in wind speed and flood depth, not in memos and talking points. Now he knew better. The worst damage began in conference rooms, where men who would never wade through chest-deep water spoke casually about “acceptable losses.” His refusal cost him a career, but saved something harder to replace: the knowledge that he hadn’t helped them lie.
As storms grew stronger and fires climbed higher, his name vanished from reports, his warnings recast as proof that the system had been broken long before they gutted it. Yet the files he’d copied, the emails he’d archived, and the testimony he’d given in closed sessions waited like unspent charges. When the next sirens wailed and the cameras searched for someone to blame, his quiet “no” would still be there, a thin, stubborn line against forgetting.
