“What?”
Mrs. Tate’s eyes did not leave Wendell.
“Caleb Tate. Maintenance technician. Georgia test site. Four years ago.”
Wendell searched his memory and found only fragments: acquisition files, personnel transfers, a facility closure, a lawsuit sealed quickly by lawyers who used phrases like legacy liability and non-material exposure.
“I don’t remember the name,” he said honestly.
“I do.”
Her voice trembled now, but she did not cry.
“He reported a battery cooling problem. Said the sensors were giving false safe readings. Said somebody would get hurt if they kept pushing the tests. His supervisor told him to stop making trouble. Then there was an explosion.”
Jaylen’s face drained of color.
“Mama…”
“He didn’t die that day,” she said. “That would’ve made it clean. He breathed smoke and chemical fumes. Came home coughing blood into napkins. The company doctor said it was asthma. Your lawyers said he had a preexisting condition. Six months later, I buried him.”
