Page 1 of Thunder

Chapter One

Amelia

"This doesn't feel real."

Gravel crunches beneath my feet and a smile lifts the corners of my mouth.

I look around me in awe.

As fantastical it seems, as it feels, as it even smells, I have to admit it is real; my eyes see it. They take it in; the gnarly oaks clustered against the rocks, in the ravines, their twisted fingers grasping for any drop of moisture in the air or falling from the sky; the wildflowers, blooming, abuzz with bees and perfuming the air; the rolling, chaparral-covered mountains dotted with small houses, a few cottages, an aluminum trailer; it's all real, right in front of me. All my responsibility.

My chance to make something meaningful that’ll last for generations.

Yet it still doesn't feel real.

"What do you mean?" My boss, Brian Russell, says beside me as I take equipment out of my bag: binoculars, a high-powered camera, vials for soil and groundwater sampling, and the clipboard that I now, begrudgingly, call my lucky clipboard because it's lasted with me throughout my master's program at NYU. Which, for a clipboard in an engineering program, where there is a strong temptation to, in the heat of the moment or in a very considered moment while reading a certain professor's feedback, snap said clipboard over one's knee, survival for even a year is a phenomenal feat. For several years, through both an engineering degree and in adding an environmental engineering master's, is practically unheard of. So, it's my lucky clipboard.

"This is my first assignment, and already I'm assisting you in running the development of what is going to be a massive Eco resort like Mar y Tierra?" My voice shakes with a trembling trio of emotions—pride, trepidation, confusion; I don't doubt myself, but to be hired fresh out of grad school and then put into a leadership role on a massive project like this is nearly unheard of. It's exciting, but it keeps my ears pricked to catch even the slightest sound of the other shoe dropping.

"You sound flattered, Amelia, when really it's just a testament to your resume and how you presented yourself in the interview. This was all earned."

I lower the camera from my eye and look over at Brian. Average height, overweight, balding, everything that happens when you spend too many hours for too many years behind a desk, and give him a smile wider than I've given to any man who's tried to pick me up. It feels good to get a compliment from someone you respect, someone who's offered to take you under their wing, and someone with enough industry awards on their wall that it'd take nearly two hands to count them all.

"Thank you."

"You can thank me by confirming the figures in our initial survey and making sure this is the best site for the development project. There's millions of dollars at stake here, Amelia, and that leaves no room for sentimentality. Just professionalism. So any time I tell you that you're doing well, it's simply a fact. And any time I tell you that you're not doing well, it's going to be the first, and last, time you hear it, because you'll be fired."

"Yes, sir."

I take up my equipment and begin plodding through the vast expanse of property that is likely to be the site for one of the biggest development projects in this part of the state in at least the last decade. So much money, so much responsibility, and so much opportunity—to protect and preserve a valuable natural space. Even thinking about it makes the world around me stand out in sharper relief. I can already visualize where the solar panels and wind turbines will go, I can see how the resort will blend in with the landscape, being one with it instead of apart from it, and I can see the wide swath of ocean that’ll be set aside as a preserve. This area is so beautiful, and the knowledge that I'll be playing a part in safekeeping it for generations means I'm smiling as I take every photo, every water sample, every breath of the sweet ocean air.

"What the hell are you doing on my property?"

I turn, lower my camera.

I've wandered far, though I’m still on the project site, but a long way from the car that Brian and I took to get here, which is now just a speck in the distance.

"Excuse me?"

"I asked you what the hell you were doing taking pictures of my damn property."

The source of the foul language is an old woman. Diminutive, gray-haired, with clear, crystalline blue eyes, a pale complexion, but rigid-straight shoulders and a posture that would put a soldier to shame.

She shakes a fist at me.

"Are you going to answer me, or am I going to have to call my grandchildren?"

"I'm just here doing a survey, ma'am," I answer, deciding a simple answer is better than to even open the can ofworms tryingto explain all the environmental data I'm collecting.

"A survey? Oh, so you're answering questions. Let me help you, dear, and give you the answer to your survey: get the hell off my land. That answer goes for you and that well-dressed tub of flab who's stomping all over my neighbor's property, too."

“Excuse me?”

“Get the hell out of here.”

"Why are you so awful?"

"How would you feel if people kept coming up to your home, telling you they're going to take it from you, and then, when you finally get them to leave you alone, you get threats from the city council, the county board, and even strange calls in the middle of the night?"

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