The poles went up faster than anyone expected.
Three days after Phillip finished the first workable coil, Shropshire Foundry's outer yard transformed into something no one had planned for—a staging area for an entirely new kind of infrastructure. Timber poles lay in rows, their ends shaved to taper, crossbars nailed firm. Bins of ceramic insulators sat beside buckets of pitch and resin. Copper wire, still warm from the drawing machine, glinted in coils large enough to wrap a wagon.
Phillip oversaw each batch personally.
Henry walked beside him, checking his list. "Fifty poles for the first mile. Another forty for the second. Then we reach the ridge before the valley." He squinted toward the north road. "You're sure we can do this in a week?"
Phillip didn't look away from the coiled copper. "We don't have a choice."
Henry nodded. He didn't argue anymore. Not after the crash.
