Western Pennsylvania, deep in the Allegheny Mountains.
The sun was setting, its afterglow burning the sky a murky orange-red.
A massive hydraulic fracturing rig emitted a dull roar, the ground trembling slightly with the machine’s rhythm.
The sll of burnt diesel exhaust filled the air, mingled with the distinctive sulfurous scent of shale gas.
After a fierce storm the previous night, the ground had turned into a dark brown bog, making a SQUELCHING sound with every step.
mbers of the press had gathered here early.
They wore all-weather jackets suitable for the outdoors, their pant cuffs rolled up high. Even so, many of their shoes were still caked with thick mud.
Lens caps were off, boom mics were held high, and everyone was waiting.
This was supposed to be a fiery dia ambush.
John Murphy had just dropped a bombshell on Chad Evans the day before.
Corruption, pay-to-play sches, a shady lobbyist for an energy company.
These were accusations that would send any associated politician scrambling to distance themselves in front of the caras.
The reporters had envisioned countless opening scenarios.
Warren might offer a tearful apology, plead ignorance, or simply cancel the event and scuttle back to Washington.
A black Ford pickup plowed through a puddle, sending muddy water flying.
The door opened, but no bodyguards erged to clear a path, nor did any PR staff co out to test the waters.
Warren jumped straight out of the truck himself.
He wore a faded, dark blue work jacket with its sleeves rolled to the elbows, a pair of oil-stained jeans, and heavy work boots caked in chunks of dried mud.
He looked less like a senator arriving to give a speech and more like a drilling foreman just off his shift.
Several hundred workers, fresh off their shift, gathered around.
Their faces were sared with soot and grease, their hard hats askew, their eyes a mixture of exhaustion and scrutiny.
The Union had told them to be here, and they wanted to hear what kind of bullshit this big shot from Washington was going to spout.
Warren strode toward a makeshift podium cobbled together from a few wooden crates.
He stepped right into a puddle, the muddy water washing over the tops of his boots, but he didn’t even glance down.
The reporters sward him, shoving a forest of caras and microphones in his face.
"Senator Warren, about Representative Murphy’s accusation that your campaign manager, Evans, accepted bribes from an energy giant—"
"Do you concede that Evans used illicit ans to influence environntal policy?"
The questions ca in a harsh, noisy clamor.
Warren gripped the microphone stand and turned to face the silent crowd of workers.
The roar of the rig was deafening; he had to raise his voice to be heard.
"Good afternoon, fellas." Warren’s voice bood from the speakers. "The air here has a real fucking kick to it."
A few scattered laughs rippled through the crowd.
Warren turned to face the caras, his eyes fierce.
"I heard him."
"John Murphy. That bookworm with the slick, greasy hair, sipping his decaf latte in an office sowhere. Yesterday, he told the whole world that my brother, Chad Evans, is a scumbag."
The site grew a little quieter.
The reporters held their breath, awaiting Warren’s defense.
"He said Evans took a consulting gig with an energy company and pocketed millions of US dollars. He called it corruption. He said Evans sold his soul."
Warren paused, his gaze sweeping over the reporters in the front row who were frantically scribbling in their notepads.
"Murphy’s right."
The crowd erupted in an uproar.
The reporters stared, wide-eyed. The workers began to murmur to each other. ’Is he actually confessing?’
Warren violently swung his arm, pointing at the massive drilling rig behind him.
"Evans did make a lot of money! Every cent he earned went straight into his pocket! I don’t deny it! And if Murphy thinks that’s his gotcha mont, then he’s as naive as a baby who hasn’t been weaned!"
He tore the baseball cap from his head and flung it into the mud.
"In Washington, we call that talent! We don’t call it a cri!"
"Do you think I’m the kind of coward who cuts a man loose just because he made so money? You think I’m going to sacrifice a brother-in-arms who’s been with for years because of so gossip from a few reporters in Philadelphia?"
"No!"
Warren’s voice hamred against the eardrums of everyone present.
"Why does Chad Evans pull down six hundred grand a year? Because he knows this business! Because he knows better than anyone how to fight those environntal lunatics in Washington who spend all day trying to shut down your plants and ban your drilling!"
"Because every cent he saves this company on compliance costs ends up as wages in your pockets! It ends up as the nonstop, day-and-night roar of this very rig!"
Warren pointed at the workers.
"Do you have any idea how many new regulations those folks at the EPA churned out last year? Three hundred! A full three hundred! And every single one of them was telling your bosses: ’Shut it down, get the hell out, and stop digging up these damn rocks!’"
"Those people sitting in their air-conditioned offices have never stepped in mud a day in their lives. They’ve never slled natural gas. They just stare at data on a computer screen, then slap their foreheads and say, ’Oh, for the sake of the planet, for the polar bears, these thousand wells in Pennsylvania have to be shut down.’"
The workers’ expressions changed.
Anger surged onto their faces. They knew this feeling all too well.
Every work stoppage for an inspection, every new emissions standard—it all ant smaller bonuses, and maybe even layoffs.
Warren’s voice grew louder and louder, until it drowned out the roar of the distant machinery.
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