I straighten my tie one last time, trying to quiet the war in my head. I’m here to learn, to see for myself. Maybe it’s not as blackand white as Alex thinks. Maybe I can actually make a difference here.
Maybe I’m just really fucking good at lying to myself.
Johnson stands up from behind his thick mahogany desk. His handshake is strong.
“Freddie Donovan!” He says my name like we’re old friends. “Victor raves about you. Says you understand how things really work.”
How things really work. The same crap Dr. Reeves feeds me. Or Victor.
The next two hours unfold like corporate theater at its finest. Scientists in pristine lab coats boast about their groundbreaking extraction processes. Marketing execs pitch campaigns that—surprisingly—actually seem to prioritize sustainability. I find myself nodding along, genuinely impressed, asking all the right questions. This could be the future of natural resources: clean, efficient, and profitable. What’s not to like?
“Our consulting division,” Johnson drones on as we walk, “is leading the charge in environmental protection. Real solutions, not just talk.”
I nod like a good boy, but all I can hear is Alex’s voice echoing in my mind—talking about Emma. About contaminated wells and corporate cover-ups. But that was different, right? Ancient history. This is the new EcoTech—clean, efficient, definitely not poisoning anyone’s water supply.
Jesus, I sound like their fucking brochure.
“Obviously,” Johnson continues, steering me toward another soulless conference room, “we face certain... challenges. Can’t shut down operations just because some tree-huggers are upset. The world needs resources.”
The way he says “tree-huggers” makes my skin crawl. Two years ago, I’d probably have laughed along. Now all I can thinkabout is Alex’s face when she talks about protecting ecosystems. About making actual fucking change instead of just pretending.
We tour labs that look more expensive than my entire education, where scientists in pristine coats talk about “revolutionary extraction methods.” The marketing team shows off their green initiatives with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for cult recruitment. I almost buy it – clean mining, sustainable future, everybody wins.
Then we go to one of the local active mining sites in the middle of nowhere, and reality bitch-slaps me across the face.
Our Tesla (because of course it’s a fucking Tesla) winds through the Colorado mountains toward EcoTech’s Copper Creek operation. Johnson’s been talking the whole drive about quarterly projections and stakeholder expectations, but I’m barely listening. My mind’s stuck on those glossy photos in the lobby of “sustainable mining practices.”
Reality hits different.
The access road opens up to the site, and my stomach drops. The scale of it is... overwhelming. Terraced walls of exposed rock stretch down into a massive pit, heavy machinery crawling along the edges like toys. The water in the collection ponds has this weird blue-green tint that definitely isn’t natural.
“Impressive, isn’t it?” Johnson beams. “We’ve increased output by 30% this year alone.”
I nod, trying to see it through his eyes. Jobs. Resources. Economic growth. But all I can think about is how long it’ll take for this place to recover. If it ever does.
“One of our most productive sites,” Johnson announces like he’s showing off his firstborn.
I nod like the good little corporate soldier I’m pretending to be. Efficiency. Productivity. Progress. The words taste like the dust coating my throat.
“What happens after?” I hear myself ask. “You know, restoration plans?”
Johnson laughs like I just told the world’s dumbest joke. “Son, we’ve got another half-century of extraction ahead of us here. You’ll be dead before we’re done.”
My stomach lurches. “Yeah, but others won’t be.” I think of Meg, of her future kids. “There has to be a plan.”
“Oh sure, sure.” He waves dismissively. “Got all sorts of pretty PowerPoints about that. Shareholders love their ESG bullshit these days.” His eyes slide away from mine. “But our job? Get the stuff out of the ground. It’s all lovely wanting to build a green future, but how do they plan on doing it without the resources and materials to build it with, eh?”
“If it’s not grown, it’s mined,” I mutter, recalling how I used the same argument against Alex once. The worst part is, it still makes sense. We need these resources to build a sustainable future. But this? Surely, there has to be a better way.
“Ha! Yes, boy, that’s the spirit.” Johnson clearly misses my tone, but I don’t bother correcting him.
I must have said something right during the tour—maybe it was asking about their drill spacing optimization or just nodding along while Johnson rambled on about quarterly targets. More likely, it was simply keeping my mouth shut and looking impressed—guys like Johnson love an audience.
Whatever it was, we’re back in his office, and he’s pulling out an envelope with the EcoTech letterhead.
“I’ll be honest, Freddie,” he says, leaning back in his chair, “I like you. You’ve got a good head on your shoulders. Not like these fresh grads we usually get, all idealistic nonsense and no practical sense.”
My stomach lurches when I see the numbers. The base salary alone could cover Dad’s medical bills. Then there’s the signing bonus, the benefits package, even a housing allowance.And beneath that, an invitation to join their summer internship program—“to get your feet wet before starting full-time.” Ugh, even that sounds gross.
