“Got business to tend to. Always got all kinds of business. Even now, with half the town pointing fingers and the other half playing prophet, I’ve still got ledgers to balance and workers to pay.

So tell me straight: is it really true? When you first told me, I thought it was a joke. Thought maybe you were trying to make a fool out of me. Nothing gives young people more pleasure than making jackasses out of old men. But you’re serious about this? Cockroaches in the waterpipes? Invisible parasites? And you’re the only one who can see them?

And you think your brother’s going to believe this? That puffed-up scarecrow in a suit? Him and his council of amateurs, they chased me out like I was a stray dog. Me! Morten Kiil. They made fools of themselves the day they threw me out—and if you can turn this water story into the hook that drags them down, well hell, I’ll give fifty thousand to the poor on Christmas Eve. I’ll write the damn check myself. Might even go as high as a hundred grand, just to watch them squirm.

You know the worst part? They believe you. Even the ones who want your head. That’s the trouble. Because if what you’re saying is true, the contamination is coming from Windmill Valley. And that’s where my tannery sits. Has for three generations. My grandfather’s name is carved in the lintel stone. You start poking around there, you won’t just find toxins. You’ll find a century of waste, of runoff, of survival. This town’s always had a little chemical in its blood—that’s what kept it alive. That’s what put roofs over heads and food on the stoves.

But I do not intend to let my family’s name be remembered as the architects of a public health crisis. People call me “Badger.” You know what that means? I root out what’s buried. But a badger is also a kind of pig, they say. I’ve lived clean. I’m going to die clean. And you—you’re going to keep my name clean for me.

It’s very simple: if you make another investigation, if you revise your opinion—well, you’re a scientist, aren’t you? You have the right to change your mind. But if you go around insisting, publishing, lecturing—that the water’s poisoned—then there’s only one conclusion: you’re crazy. And people don’t listen to crazy.

Millions of gallons of water come down that river. How do you know your test wasn’t from some isolated patch? One bad scoop in a clean stream. Ever think about that? You didn’t even try disinfectant, did you? Chlorine, UV, borax—hell, pour in a little vodka and call it holistic. The tourists don’t care what’s in the water. They care how it feels. They want eucalyptus towels and quiet playlists. That’s the business. That’s the vision.

Everything can be killed. That’s science. Even bacteria. Even scrutiny. Even bad press.

And let’s not forget this: You have every reason to hate your brother. The way he talked down to you, wrote you off, handed you over to the wolves. I hated him too. Always did. So ask yourself: are you doing this for the truth… or for revenge? Because I know what it looks like when someone wants to blow up the whole institute just to take one man down. And you—you’re looking mighty close to that edge.

But mark me, boy: no one is going to say Morten Kiil wrecked this town. You want to take that risk? Be the one remembered for lighting the match? Be careful. It’s a serious thing—to destroy a town.”