Around noon Mason Bell returned.
He looked less stiff now, probably because the order had already landed and there was no point pretending it had not.
“Mr. Mercer,” he said, climbing the porch steps, “we have a new concern.”
Hank laughed bitterly.
“That so?”
Bell handed him another sheet.
“Subsurface washout under the shoulder extends closer to your drive than we estimated. Also, the east equipment shed has unstable electrical and possible contaminated soil from long-term seepage. Heavy remediation equipment will be required.”
“Say it plain.”
Bell did.
“For at least part of this process, you can’t safely stay on site.”
Hank stared at him.
“This is my house.”
“I understand.”
“Do you?”
Bell looked away toward the yard where workers were unloading temporary barriers.
“I grew up on a cattle place,” he said. “My brothers still run it.”
That took some of the edge out of Hank’s anger, though not enough.
“Then you understand what you’re asking.”
“Yes,” Bell said. “I do.”
“When?”
“Soon. Maybe tomorrow. We’re coordinating with the rural development office for temporary housing. Costs covered.”
Temporary housing.
The words sounded like something you said to folks after tornadoes.
Not to a man whose farmhouse was still standing.
That afternoon, a woman in a charcoal blazer arrived in a black sedan that did not belong on a gravel drive. She stepped out carrying a leather folder and the kind of expression people wear when they are about to say something unpleasant in polished sentences.
“Mr. Mercer, I’m Patricia Hale with the rural development office.”
He did not invite her in.
She did not wait to be invited.
“We’re activating a short-term farm resilience placement while safety and repair work continues on your property. It’s standard when active excavation, environmental mitigation, and utility correction overlap with residential access.”
Hank folded his arms.
“You people sure know how to dress up bad news.”
Her expression softened just enough to show she had heard that line before.
“You’ll be housed at a training lodge about two and a half hours away. Private room. Meals included. Transportation included.”
“I’m not going on vacation.”
“This is not a vacation, Mr. Mercer.”
“It sounds a lot like one somebody else picked.”
“It is temporary.”
“How temporary?”
“Current schedule suggests ten to fourteen days for the intensive phase. After that we reassess.”
Ten to fourteen days was better than thirty.
It also somehow felt worse, because hope with a number on it can crack a person faster than hopelessness.
“Why there?” he asked.
“The facility already hosts agricultural workshops and short-term placement programs. It was the fastest safe option with availability.”
He thought of the farm every minute he’d be gone.
