Chương 8
Nathan walked to him.
He didn't say anything.
He just helped.
After they disappeared upstairs, Sam remained at the kitchen table.
Miriam was still on the phone.
"Lauren?"
"Yes."
"I need you to send me every clinical report you filed before the first lock event."
"Why before?"
"Because if the configuration changed on March fourteenth, I need to know whether StrideCore had prior information about Owen's gait, load tolerance, weight, spasticity, fatigue pattern, and assistance requirements before they pushed that build."
I stared at the half-closed laptop.
"They did."
"You're sure?"
"I submitted weekly progress reports."
"Through their portal?"
"Yes."
"Did those include gait variability?"
"Yes."
"Load asymmetry?"
"Yes."
"Fall-risk notes?"
My mouth went dry.
"Yes."
Sam opened the laptop again.
Miriam said, "Then we have a new question."
I already knew what it was.
If StrideCore had Owen's clinical data before changing the software, the company could not easily argue that his gait had surprised the machine.
The possibility was worse than a defective actuator.
It was worse than a careless technician clearing reports.
Someone might have known exactly how Owen moved before they installed a system more likely to lock when he moved that way.
Sam looked at me.
"Do you still have local copies of those reports?"
"I should."
"Should?"
"I exported some."
Miriam cut in.
"Find them."
I opened my laptop.
My hands were no longer steady.
I searched the folder where I kept encrypted patient documentation.
March seventh.
March tenth.
March thirteenth.
The file list jumped.
There was nothing from March fourteenth because I had not submitted a report that day.
Then I opened March thirteenth.
Near the bottom, beneath balance tolerance and left-side fatigue, I had written a sentence I had completely forgotten.
PATIENT DEMONSTRATES INTERMITTENT HIGH-LOAD VARIANCE DURING LEFT KNEE TRANSITION UNDER FATIGUE; RECOMMEND CONSERVATIVE ASSIST SETTINGS UNTIL STABILITY IMPROVES.
Sam read it over my shoulder.
Nobody spoke.
Miriam's voice came through the phone.
"When did they push the update?"
I looked at the timestamp on my report.
Then at the installation record.
My report had been received at 4:42 p.m. on March thirteenth.
The new controller build had reached Owen's X9 at 2:08 the next morning.
Sam whispered, "Fourteen hours."
I felt cold despite the warm kitchen.
Nathan came back downstairs alone.
He saw our faces.
"What now?"
I turned the laptop toward him.
Nathan read my note.
Then he read the installation time.
His eyes moved between them.
For the first time since this started, he did not look angry.
He looked afraid.
"They knew his left knee load varied."
"Yes."
"And the next day they installed software with a narrower tolerance for load variance."
"Yes."
He looked toward the stairs.
"Was that update sent to everyone?"
Sam shook his head slowly.
"We don't know."
Nathan looked at him.
"Find out."
This time, Sam did not say maybe.
He only said, "That's what we need next."
Sam spent the next three hours trying to answer a question that sounded simple until anybody tried to prove it.
He needed to know whether build 7E had been sent broadly across the X9 fleet or selectively to Owen's unit.
StrideCore's public release notes gave him nothing.
The company's customer portal listed the March fourteenth package as a "routine stability update," the sort of phrase designed to make human beings stop reading.
Nathan stood behind him for so long that Sam finally turned around.
"You're making the back of my head nervous."
Nathan stepped away.
"Sorry."
"You say that like you're not going to come back in thirty seconds."
Nathan walked to the counter and opened a cabinet.
"Coffee?"
"No."
"Tea?"
"No."
"Water?"
"I brought water."
Nathan shut the cabinet.
"I need something to do."
"Then stop asking me questions whose answers are still loading."
Nathan looked offended.
Sam pointed at the refrigerator.
"Organize condiments."
Nathan actually considered it.
I was sitting at the table with my old clinical reports open, comparing every note I had submitted before the software update.
The longer I read, the worse I felt.
There were no dramatic warnings.
Nothing that would have made a manufacturer halt treatment.
There were only the ordinary, tedious details of rehabilitation.
Owen fatigued more quickly after twenty-five minutes.
His left-side support varied when he was distracted.
His tone increased when he was anxious.
He tended to rotate his hip inward when he tried too hard.
His gait became less predictable late in sessions.
That was exactly why clinical data existed.
Real bodies refused to behave like diagrams.
I had sent StrideCore those details because their engineers said the X9 adapted to the individual patient.
Now I couldn't stop wondering whether adaptation was what had put Owen at risk.
My phone buzzed.
A message from Miriam appeared.
DO NOT CONTACT ANYONE ASSOCIATED WITH STRIDECORE WITHOUT ME.
I showed Sam.
He nodded.
"Good advice."
"I wasn't planning to."
"Your face was."
"My face doesn't have legal standing."
"You'd be surprised."
Nathan came back.
"The ketchup is now organized."
Sam stared at him.
"By what system?"
"Expiration date."
"That is deeply unsettling."
Nathan's mouth twitched.
It was the closest he came to smiling.
Then Owen called from upstairs.
"Dad?"
Nathan was moving before the second syllable.
I heard the stair lift motor start.
A few minutes later, he returned with Owen, who had changed into gray sweatpants and was carrying a tablet against his chest.
He stopped beside the kitchen table.
"Can I ask something?"
Nathan said, "Always."
Owen looked at Sam.
"If the update was bad, can they take it back out?"
Sam turned his chair.
"Probably."
"Then why don't we just do that?"
"Because we don't know yet whether the update is the whole problem."
"But if it made it worse?"
"Then removing it might help."
"That's not the same as yes."
"No."
Owen frowned.
People lied to children by making certainty sound kinder than uncertainty.
May you like
Sam refused to do that.
I respected him for it even when it made the room harder to sit in.
