5:47 AM. Travas Deal sits at his kitchen table with the emissions projection open on his laptop. If the Ray Nixon Power Plant runs until 2040, Colorado Springs Utilities will emit an additional 8.2 million tons of CO2 beyond the 2029 shutdown date. Sulfur dioxide, nitrogen oxides, particulate matter—all contributing to Front Range ozone problems for eleven more years.

He closes the laptop. Opens it again. The renewable energy bids from last February are spread across the table—every proposal came back 30% to 50% higher than projected. Wyoming has the best wind resources, but he knows what he told reporters: getting that power here requires transmission lines that don't exist yet—"a challenge, as is witnessed by the problems Xcel Energy is having in getting electricity from El Paso County to Aurora."

At 1 PM today, he faces the nine elected city council members who govern Colorado Springs Utilities. They need to know what timeline he's asking them to support. Senate Bill 26-022 allows extensions up to 2040. He could ask for less—2035, maybe 2032. Something that sounds more reasonable while environmental groups call his utility "the only major utility in the state trying to walk away" from Colorado's climate commitments.

His wife refills his coffee. "You decided yet?"

He hasn't. The board already approved 6.5% annual rate increases for five years. Asking for 2040 means admitting they need the maximum extension. Asking for less means maybe running out of time again, facing this same crisis in 2035.

7:15 AM. Representative Amy Paschal needs talking points by 9. "What timeline are you asking the board for?" she says.

Deal stares at the blank document. Types 2040, deletes it. Types 2035, deletes that too.

"I'll have it to you by 8:30," he says.

He spent years at Duke Energy's Gibson Generating Station in Indiana—the largest coal plant in the United States. He closed the Martin Drake coal plant here ten years early. He knows what coal does. He also knows what happens when Fort Carson loses power, when 250,000 customers can't afford their bills.

8:02 AM. The state law language is back on his screen. Colorado's 2019 Climate Action Plan requires 80% greenhouse gas reductions by 2030. If utilities can't hit the target, the law says the state will force compliance "without consideration of the costs paid by electric customers."

Without consideration. His entire job is consideration.

A new document opens. He types: Colorado Springs Utilities requests board support for Senate Bill 26-022, allowing retirement of Ray Nixon Power Plant by 2040.

2040. The full extension. Three times through, reading each word.

His phone buzzes—text from a board member. Constituents calling all morning. Half support you, half think we're caving to fossil fuel interests.

The reply box sits empty. What version of this makes sense to anyone? That he's asking for fourteen more years of burning coal because the economics don't work yet? That the climate goals are real but so are the bills people can't pay?

9:03 AM. The talking points go to Paschal with 2040 in the text. His finger hovers over the send button for five seconds before he presses it.

10:30 AM. House Minority Leader Jarvis Caldwell calls. "Environmental groups are mobilizing hard. They want to know why other utilities are making it work."

Deal doesn't have a good answer. Xcel is bigger. Holy Cross is smaller. Every utility is different. That explanation doesn't satisfy anyone, including him.

The thought comes: call Paschal back, change 2040 to 2035. Split the difference. Make it sound less extreme. He doesn't call.

12:40 PM. Plaza of the Rockies. The board meeting room sits on the fifth floor. In his briefcase: the talking points with 2040 written in them, the emissions projections showing 8.2 million additional tons of CO2, the rate analysis showing what happens if they try to meet 2029.

Three minutes in the parked car. He could still walk in there and ask for 2035. Give himself an out. Show he's trying to compromise.

2035 means facing this again in nine years, though. Means hoping transmission improves, costs drop, something changes. Means maybe running out of time.

He gets out of the car.

1:03 PM. The board room. Nine elected officials at the table. Deal sits across from them, opens his briefcase.

Board Chair Dave Donelson starts: "We've received significant constituent contact on both sides of this issue. What specifically are you asking this board to support?"

The documents sit in front of him. The 2040 timeline. The emissions he'll be responsible for. The families who can't afford higher rates. The climate commitments Colorado made in 2019.

"Senate Bill 26-022 allows us to extend Ray Nixon's retirement up to 2040," he says. "I'm asking this board to publicly support that bill—the full extension it allows."

Board member Nancy Henjum leans forward. "Why the maximum? Why not push for 2035?"

The hedge is right there—they'll reassess, build in flexibility, see what happens. He hears himself answering:

"And the emissions?" Henjum asks.

The laptop turns toward the board. "8.2 million additional tons of CO2 if we run until 2040. Plus sulfur dioxide, nitrogen oxides, particulate matter."

The room is quiet.

"I closed Drake ten years early," he says. "I know what coal does. Right now, today, with the bids we received and the infrastructure we have, this is what keeping rates manageable and reliability stable looks like."

Board member Brandy Williams: "What happens if the legislature doesn't pass the bill?"

"Then we shut down Nixon in 2029 and rates go up significantly, or we face state enforcement. Or we find replacement power we couldn't find last February."

Donelson looks around the table. "The board will discuss and vote on a resolution of support. CEO Deal, thank you for your presentation."

The briefcase closes. He's asked for 2040. Put the number on the record. Now the board decides whether to support him, the legislature decides whether to pass the bill, the governor decides whether to sign it.

And if it all happens, if every vote goes his way, Ray Nixon keeps burning coal until 2040 while he figures out how to make the economics work for what comes after. Fourteen more years of emissions he'll carry. Fourteen more years of hoping transmission improves, costs drop, something changes.

Outside the board room, his phone already has three texts—Paschal, Caldwell, the utility's legislative liaison. Everyone wanting to know how it went.

He writes back: Asked for 2040. Board will vote.

Now everyone else decides whether they can live with it.