Mangrove Publishing

Liu Wei’s hand hovered over the keyboard. Fifteen years of preparation, and everything depended on timing. Not just launching the attack, but launching it at precisely the right moment so the escalation curve peaked exactly when American negotiators sat down in Geneva.

Behind him, Dr. Chen pulled up the biological progression models one last time. “Harvest cycle synchronization confirmed. Both cannabis and leafy greens farms have similar, four-to-six-week, cultivation periods. First harvests will reach consumers with minimal toxicity. The second cycle shows moderate elevation. The third cycle enters the serious contamination range. Fourth cycle…”

“Fourth cycle produces lethal concentrations,” Liu Wei finished. “And fourth cycle harvests reach American consumers during Geneva summit opening sessions.”

The bass from Movement Festival shook Hart Plaza like a second heartbeat. Lasers strobed across the Detroit River, ricocheting off the glass towers of the Renaissance Center.

To anyone in the crowd, it was bliss. To EMS crews at the perimeter, it was a nightmare blooming in real time.

At 11:17 p.m., a kid collapsed near the sound tent. Security called it dehydration. Another went down at 11:22—pills, maybe. By 11:30, six patients lay in the medical tent, unresponsive, vitals sliding into the same pattern.

“Not fentanyl,” EMT Carla Reyes muttered as she clipped a monitor onto a twenty-year-old still wearing his wristband. “No pinpoint pupils. No respiratory depression. This is different.”

The surgeon told me it’s a “routine procedure.” He sat in his office, calm and professional, and gave me the odds: approximately a 97% to 98% chance of success.

That sounds great to a layman. It sounds like an A-plus on a test.

But then he mentioned the inverse: approximately a 1% mortality rate.

Wait a minute, my brain fired back. One percent?

Most people hear 99% success and hear “guaranteed.” I hear “statistical deviation.” I know what a bell curve looks like. I know tails exist. And I know that if 100 people go into that operating room, one of them doesn’t come home. The math doesn’t care that I have a family. The math doesn’t care that I have plans. The math just is.

They checked me in. Verified my identity. “Please state your name.” I answered. Robert Cummer. They matched me to their paperwork. I was the right guy.

Lucky me.

Then came the scale.

I stepped on. The number flashed. And immediately, the engineer in me woke up and chose violence.

Wait a minute, I thought. I’m wearing heavy winter shoes. Last time I was weighed, I was in slippers. Is this thing calibrated?

I stood there, moments away from having my chest opened, and I was genuinely annoyed about the data integrity of my weigh-in.

Every plant environment is different. Some are dirty and gritty, with dust in the air and oil on the floor. Others are spotless, organized, and quiet enough to hear your own footsteps. The point is: be prepared for anything. If you’re on your own, you learn quick. If you’re a contractor walking into a new plant, you really learn quick.

On any given day, you’ll deal with fork trucks buzzing past, beepers and horns going off, overhead PAs calling out shift changes. You’ll hear clicks and clacks that sound like your machine failing—but it’s just the hum of the plant. And if the place is quiet? That usually means something’s wrong, because production doesn’t stop unless there’s trouble.

Sometimes the challenges are simple but frustrating. Panels hidden behind equipment that was built around them decades ago. Crawling on the floor through old gum and grime just to get a line of sight on a conduit. Nothing in a classroom prepares you for those moments. You only learn by living them.