Rebecca Sloan looked at him for another moment. the assessing look again, recalibrating, and went back to her tablet. 17 minutes later, her phone rang. She answered it, listened for 30 seconds, and then looked at Malcolm with an expression that had become entirely different from the one she'd walked in with. "Dr. Reed," she lowered the phone.
"Our lead engineer says the curves align, all three," he says. She stopped. He says it's not three separate issues. No, Malcolm said without looking up from the generator. It's one.
The oscillation is moving through three systems simultaneously. The software saw three small anomalies and classified each one individually, but they're not individual. They're the same event wearing three different faces. He set down the caliper and looked at her. And every correction your team has tried, they've been addressing the individual faces, which means you've been introducing counter pressures into a system that is already resonating.
He paused. You may have made it worse. The garage was very quiet. Ava's pencil had stopped moving. Rebecca Sloan stared at Malcolm Reed in his greasecovered workclo beside a 60-year-old diesel generator in a roadside garage outside Huntsville, Alabama.
And for the first time since she'd driven three hours to find him, the tension around her eyes eased slightly. Not because the problem was solved, because she understood finally that she'd found the right man. "I need you to come to Huntsville," she said. Malcolm looked at Ava. Ava looked back at him.
She was holding her pencil in both hands, very still, and there was something on her face he hadn't seen there before. Not excitement exactly, but a kind of gravity. the expression of someone who is watching something important happen and knows it. There are conditions, Malcolm said. I expected there would be. I'll hear what you're dealing with.
I'll look at the full telemetry. I'm not promising anything beyond that. That's fair. And I need 2 hours to finish what I started this morning. Rebecca glanced at the Henderson generator.
2 hours, she agreed. Malcolm picked up his caliper. Across the road, Brent Caldwell was still standing at the edge of his lot watching. And now several of his customers had joined him and the mechanic in the polo shirt with Titan on the chest, was shading his eyes against the morning sun, trying to read the insignia on the side of one of the government SUVs. Inside the garage, Ava walked quietly to her stool, sat down, opened her notebook to a fresh page, and wrote something at the top.
Malcolm didn't see what it was until later when he picked up the notebook to move it off the workbench. She had written in her careful, precise handwriting, "Dr. Malcolm J. Reed," and underlined it twice. He spent the next 2 hours working.
Rebecca Sloan remained in the garage making calls in a low voice, reviewing data on her tablet. Her escort stayed near the entrance. The second SUV remained parked and still. Malcolm finished the Henderson generator diagnostic, replaced the timing circuit, ran two test cycles, and confirmed it was operating correctly. He set it aside with a note for Earl Henderson, explaining what he'd found and what he'd done.
He charged what the parts had cost him, and nothing more, which is what he'd always done for the Hendersons, which was a calculation Brent Caldwell would never have understood and therefore would never have been able to make. At 10:45, Malcolm washed his hands, dried them, changed his shirt, and came back into the main garage. Ava had packed a bag for him, clothes, his laptop, his mechanical pencil, a paperback she'd put in because he always forgot to bring one and then couldn't sleep. She was standing beside it with her arms crossed in the posture that meant she had already thought through all her objections and decided to keep them to herself for now. I'll be at school Monday, she said.
Mrs. Patterson said she'll check in on me mornings and evenings if you're you're staying with the Pattersons. Dad. Ava, you're 11. I'm almost 12.
In 6 months, she depressed her lips together. I was going to say, I'll be fine. I know you will. At the Pattersons, he held her face in his hands for a moment. She was getting tall.
She was going to be taller than Diane had been. He could already tell. and she leaned into it for exactly 2 seconds before pulling back because she was 11 going on 40 and displays of parental sentiment had a strict time limit. Call me, she said, every night and tell me what you find the actual thing, not a simplified version. Malcolm picked up his bag. I'll tell you what I can.
That means you'll simplify it. It means there may be clearance issues. She thought about this. Fine, but the parts you can tell me. Tell me all of them.
Deal. He walked toward the SUV. Rebecca held the door. Malcolm looked back once at the garage. The sign, the concrete, the tools laid out in their organized rows through the open bay door.
Deshaawn's grandfather's outboard motor wrapped in its beach towel, waiting patiently on the back shelf. He got into the vehicle. Ava stood in the garage doorway and watched the three SUVs pull out of the gravel lot, turn onto the highway, and head toward Huntsville. She watched until they were gone. Then she picked up her notebook.
She turned to the page where she'd written her father's name, and underlined it twice. Below it, she wrote a question. The one that had been sitting in the back of her mind since the moment she'd heard Rebecca Sloan say doctor in front of her father's name out loud in the garage like it had always been true, like it had never stopped being true. She wrote, "Why didn't I know that?" What Ava didn't know, what nobody in that town knew, was that the man who spent his days covered in grease fixing machinery. other shops turned away.
Had once been one of the sharpest propulsion engineers in American aerospace. Had once stood in test facilities that cost more than the entire county he now lived in. Had once done work that was supposed to matter. Had once refused to sign his name to something he knew was wrong and had paid for that refusal for 8 years. What Rebecca Sloan was carrying in that secured tablet wasn't just a propulsion problem.
It was a reckoning, and it had only just begun. The drive to Huntsville took 47 minutes. Malcolm spent most of it looking out the window. Not at the road, not at the passing landscape, but at something that wasn't there anymore. Rebecca Sloan sat across from him in the second row seat, giving him the silence the way someone gives a man space when they can tell he's working something out internally that has nothing to do with the data on her tablet.
She was good at reading rooms. Malcolm noticed that about her in the first 10 minutes. She didn't fill silence with noise. The third man in the vehicle, the one who hadn't introduced himself, sat up front and said nothing the entire drive. At the 30 minute mark, Malcolm spoke first.