His posture changed.
Shoulders straightened.
Fatigue disappeared.
He forgot the attorneys.
Forgot the warehouse.
Forgot that nine years had passed since anyone paid him to ask questions like these.
“What controller revision?”
“M-47.”
The father froze.
The woman saw it.
“What?”
He looked toward the technical executive.
“Say that again.”
“M-47.”
The father slowly sat.
For several seconds, he said nothing.
The woman leaned forward.
“Why does that matter?”
He looked at her.
“Because I designed the architecture it came from.”
The room went completely still.
One attorney stopped writing.
The technical executive frowned.
“That's not possible.”
The father looked toward him.
“Why?”
“M-series predates—”
“I know when it predates.”
The engineer typed.
“What was your name at the supplier?”
The father gave it.
The man searched.
Then searched again.
He looked confused.
“I don’t see you listed.”
The father laughed once.
There was no humor in it.
“No.”
“You wouldn’t.”
The woman looked between them.
“Explain.”
The father stood.
“No.”
She blinked.
“No?”
“My hour is for your fleet.”
“Not my past.”
He pointed toward the screen.
“Show me the board layout.”
The technical executive hesitated.
“That’s proprietary.”
The father looked at the woman.
She nodded.
“Show him.”
The schematic appeared.
The father stepped closer.
He traced the power path with one finger.
Drive controller.
Relay stage.
Protection network.
Thermal compensation.
Except—
He stopped.
“They removed it.”
The technical executive frowned.
“Removed what?”
The father pointed.
“Redundant pressure compensation.”
“That isn't in the specification.”
“I know.”
“How?”
The father looked at him.
“Because I put it there.”
The engineer stared.
The father continued.
“This housing expands after prolonged thermal cycling.”
“Contact pressure drops.”
“Resistance rises.”
“Controller supply becomes unstable under load.”
“The communications fault is secondary.”
The technical executive immediately started typing.
The woman asked:
“Could that disable two hundred vehicles?”
“If they use the same component batch?”
“Yes.”
“Can you prove it?”
The father looked toward her.
“Give me one failed module.”
She turned toward the technical executive.
“Get one.”
He reached for his phone.
The conference-room door opened before he could call.
An older man entered.
Silver hair.
Expensive coat.
Controlled irritation.
He looked toward the woman.
“We need to move this meeting downtown. This facility isn't appropriate for—”
Then he saw the single father.
Stopped.
The father went still.
Nine years disappeared in one second.
The older man’s expression tightened.
“What is he doing here?”
The woman looked toward him.
“You know each other.”
The older man recovered.
“Unfortunately.”
The single father’s jaw clenched.
The technical executive looked confused.
The woman said:
“He believes he designed the architecture behind the M-series controller.”
The older man laughed.