Bedtime Stories for Public Servants: The Fields of Maybe

The views expressed are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of ASPA as an organization.

By S. Mohsen Fatemi
November 24, 2025

The night before the hearing, the planning office was the only lit room in the courthouse, a pale square of yellow floating above an empty parking lot.

Inside, Miriam Hale, Pausewell County’s lone planning director, sat surrounded by binders of impact studies. She rubbed her eyes and whispered to no one, “I don’t know enough to say yes. And I don’t know enough to say no.”

The door creaked. Commissioner Ron Talbert entered, hat in hand.
“You still going?” he asked.
“I keep hoping the data will magically reorganize itself into clarity,” she said.
Ron sat across from her sighing. “They give you all that?”
“The company. The state. Consultants. Everyone with an opinion.” She closed a binder. “What I don’t have is staff or time or a fire marshal who isn’t Caleb’s cousin with a leaky truck.”
Ron swallowed. “You gonna recommend the moratorium?”
“I’m going to recommend the only thing I can defend,” she said. “Not because it’s right. Because it’s possible.”
He looked at her for a long moment. “That’s the tragedy of this job, isn’t it.”
She didn’t answer.

The hearing room was overflowing the next evening, farmers in boots, retirees with folded letters, teenagers peering from behind their parents. Rain tapped softly at the windows.
Ron opened the meeting with a somber voice. “We’re here to discuss extending the moratorium on utility-scale wind and solar to December 31 2049.”
The year rippled through the room like a cold wind.

Miriam presented first. “We’re a county of eight thousand. We have three staff. We lack the capacity to regulate a project of this magnitude. The benefits could be large. The risks could also be large. Given our limitations, I recommend renewing the moratorium.”
Silence followed, heavy and uncertain.

Public comments began.
“I’m Tom Irwin,” a man in a Carhartt jacket said. “My granddaddy broke this ground with horses. You put those glass fields out there, you erase us.”

Later, Sarah Kline, who ran the daycare, spoke through trembling breath. “Our school roof leaks. We cancel field trips because the bus fund is empty. Twenty million could change that. Please don’t choose fear over our kids.”

Alana Rivers, the developer’s representative, stepped up with soaked cuffs and weary eyes. “If you freeze all development for twenty-five years, you’re not protecting yourselves, you’re locking yourselves out of opportunity.”
“Easy for you to say,” someone muttered. “You don’t live here.”

When Caleb Ransom took the microphone, the room quieted.
“For the record, I’m Caleb,” he said. “I ain’t signed any lease. But I thought hard. My farm’s drowning in debt. Forty acres of bad ground could save it. But I also love this place more than I love money.”
He paused.
“If you’re voting for twenty-five years of nothing, say it plain: you’re choosing the view over the people. Maybe that’s the right choice. But say it.”
He stepped away to murmurs of sympathy and dismay.

Finally, Lena Ortiz, the high school science teacher, walked forward like someone approaching a cliff.
“For the record, Lena Ortiz. I teach your children.”
She looked around, meeting eyes that quickly dropped.
“They ask me why nothing changes here,” she said softly. “I tell them small counties can still be part of big futures. But how do I explain that we said no for twenty-five years because we didn’t feel ready?”
Her voice trembled.
“We shouldn’t pretend this decision is neutral. It will shape their lives. All I ask is that you remember them when you vote.”
Her words hung in the air like breath in winter.

The commissioners deliberated briefly, but everyone knew the decision had already settled into the bones of the room.
Commissioner Gaines voted first. “When I don’t understand something and can’t control it, I don’t invite it in. Yes on the moratorium.”
Commissioner Brandt followed. “I like sleeping at night. Yes.”
Then Ron looked out at the crowd, his mother, his neighbors, the land he had grown from.
“I want possibilities for this county,” he said, voice thick. “But possibilities you can’t manage aren’t possibilities, they’re liabilities.”
He closed his eyes.
“Yes on the moratorium.”

No cheers came. No gasps. Just a quiet collective exhale of resignation.

Hours later, Miriam drove beyond the county line and parked where she could see the distant turbines in the neighboring county, their white arms turning like slow clocks. They were the future, visible but unreachable.
Her phone buzzed, a text from Lena: Thank you for being honest. Even if honesty wasn’t enough.
Miriam looked back toward Pausewell County, dark, still, undecided in every way that mattered.
The turbines kept turning. Pausewell did not.

A Pause with the Civic Sage

Miriam: It feels like we chose the only thing we knew how to do, not the thing we needed.
Civic Sage: Most public decisions start there. People govern with the tools they have, not the ones the problem deserves.
Miriam: Then why does it feel like failure?
Civic Sage: Because you measured the decision against the future while the room measured it against fear and blame.
Miriam: I hid behind capacity. “We’re not ready.”
Civic Sage: Naming limits isn’t hiding. But limits become a shield when no one asks how to change them.
Miriam: So what should I have done?
Civic Sage: Asked a different question, not “Can we manage this project?” but “What would it take to manage anything like it ever?”
Miriam: That sounds bigger than my job.
Civic Sage: It is. That’s what makes it public work.
Miriam: And the kids Lena talked about?
Civic Sage: They’ll inherit the institutions you build or the ones you leave untouched.

Loose Ends

The story reveals how governance falters when the scale of public problems outpaces the capacity of the institutions tasked with addressing them. Miriam’s dialogue with the Civic Sage underscores a more profound truth: public service is not only the work of making responsible choices within present constraints but also of building the analytic, organizational, and civic foundations needed for choices the future will inevitably demand.

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Author: S. Mohsen Fatemi is a PhD candidate in the School of Public Affairs & Administration at the University of Kansas, where his research examines energy governance, policy, and justice. He is the creator of Bedtime Stories for Public Servants. This narrative series blends storytelling, reflective dialogue, and research-based insights to explore the ethical and emotional dilemmas faced in public service. He can be reached at [email protected]. His website is www.mohsenfatemi.com, and his X/Twitter handle is @MohsenFatemiii.

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