Data Runner Read Online Free PDF Page B

town who can’t afford the hookup to TerraAqua. If he sounds like a nice man, that’s because he is, but make no mistake. Beneath his pleasant exterior he is also a tough man, and he can do almost anything. Whenever Mrs. Bach’s car wouldn’t start, he was always the one who got it going. When three pallets of sheetrock donated to the elementary school were left collecting dust because there was no money to hire a contractor to do the job, it was Mr. Chupick who went in on the weekends to put it up. That is something that has always impressed me about him, how good he is with his hands. I’m good with my hands when it comes to electronics—wires, transistors, antennas, that sort of thing. Mr. Chupick is good with his hands when it comes to the stuff that really matters, the stuff that people can’t live without. I know about things that can change the world; the stuff he knows could rebuild it from scratch.
    I get in and yank the door closed behind me. “So where’s the water going tonight?”
    â€œThe food trucks. They could use a topping off.”
    I suppose it’s irony that Mr. Chupick says this just as we pass three boarded-up storefronts that all used to be restaurants.
    Like many towns across North America, Brentwood was once a decent suburb that tried to become an affluent suburb by selling its energy rights. And just like many other towns across North America, things went very bad very quickly. In Brentwood, it wasn’t mercury in the dirt or dioxin in the air, it was a major hydrofracking mishap that caused a slurry of chemicals and natural gas to poison the town’s water supply. Just like that. One day you had the cleanest spring water coming out of your tap, the next you could set a match to it and light the stream on fire. No joke, people could actually set their taps on fire. After that, many of the former residents left town, mostly because they could afford to leave. They took their settlement checks and moved into gated communities further upstate, and Brentwood became just another halfway suburb for people whose former residences were out in the squatter settlements. People who previously could only ever dream of living in a suburb like Brentwood. But now that the local water was toxic, who else could ever hope to live there?
    â€œThere’s something I’ve always wondered about,” I ask Mr. Chupick, “how come your well wasn’t ruined in the disaster?”
    â€œA lot of people wonder about that. The spill happened above the water table. It affected the reservoir and all the surface water, but mine is a deeper well that taps into an isolated pool of groundwater.”
    â€œSo how much water do you have down there?”
    â€œThat’s the sixty-four thousand dollar question. The Blackburn Corps of Engineers came into Brentwood and did a complete topographical survey a few months ago. That would tell me the answer, but I can’t get them to release the results. If I could see those surveys, I would know exactly how much there is.”
    â€œWhy won’t they show them to you?”
    â€œBecause even though they’re contracted by the North American Alliance, they’re still a private company. There used to be this thing called freedom of information , but that went out with the bathwater once the corporations took over.”
    â€œSo how come you never joined the water collective?”
    â€œOh, they’ve tried. Ever since the disaster, the water collective has been after me to join. Sure, I could let TerraAqua take over the management of my water rights. They would come onto my property, cement up my well, drive a pump into the ground and turn it into a relay in their water system. In return, I would receive a monthly revenue from the collective. But who would that benefit? Right now, I draw the water myself and distribute it as I see fit. I don’t need TerraAqua to manage that.” Mr. Chupick steers