Chương 9
Owen put his tablet on the table.
"I looked up MedAxis."
Nathan stiffened.
"You what?"
"It's on Google."
"Owen."
"What?"
"You're nine."
"Google doesn't ask."
Nathan looked at me as though this were somehow my fault.
I lifted both hands.
Owen tapped the tablet.
"They made another walking machine."
Sam leaned forward.
"Show me."
Nathan started to object.
I shook my head once.
He stopped.
Owen had found an archived product brochure hosted by a university rehabilitation center.
The MedAxis device looked older and bulkier than the X9, but the knee housing was familiar.
Not identical.
Familiar.
Sam enlarged the image.
"That's interesting."
Nathan hated that word almost as much as maybe.
"What?"
"The actuator geometry."
"Same?"
"Related."
He zoomed further.
"Could be a predecessor design."
Owen said, "So my robot is its kid."
Sam looked at him.
"In engineering terms, that's not terrible."
"Did its knee break too?"
Sam did not answer immediately.
"We know one family alleged a knee support failure."
"That's lawyer talk."
"Yes."
Owen picked up the tablet again.
"I don't like lawyer talk."
From Nathan's phone, Miriam's voice suddenly said, "Neither do lawyers."
We all jumped.
Nathan looked down.
He had accidentally answered her call while reaching for the device.
Miriam continued.
"But sometimes it's how we keep one bad assumption from becoming a fake fact."
Owen stared at the phone.
"Hi."
"Hi, Owen."
"Did you call the other mom?"
A pause followed.
"Yes."
Every adult at the table stopped moving.
Nathan picked up the phone.
"And?"
"She hasn't agreed to speak with us."
His shoulders dropped.
"Why not?"
"Because a stranger contacted her about the worst day of her son's rehabilitation."
"Did she refuse?"
"No."
"Then what did she say?"
"She asked how we got her name."
"Fair question."
"I answered."
"And?"
"She said she'd think about it."
Nathan started pacing again.
Miriam said, "Do not interpret that as permission to contact her."
"I heard you the first six times."
"Good."
Sam tapped my laptop.
"Tell Miriam what we found about Lauren's report."
We did.
Miriam went quiet.
When she spoke again, her voice had lost its edge.
"Send me the original export, not screenshots."
"And preserve the portal confirmation."
"I have it."
"Good."
Nathan asked, "Does this change anything legally?"
"It changes what questions are reasonable."
"That's all?"
"For now."
Nathan stared out the kitchen window.
"Everybody keeps saying for now."
Miriam said, "Because you are two days into a technical investigation involving a private company and a medical device."
"He could have been hurt."
"I know."
"No, you don't."
The sentence landed badly.
Miriam's reply came after a short silence.
"My daughter spent eleven months in physical therapy after a bicycle accident."
Nathan stopped pacing.
"I didn't know that."
"You didn't ask."
"I didn't mean—"
"I know what you meant."
Her voice softened, but only slightly.
"Fear does not make evidence move faster."
Nathan sat down.
"I'm sorry."
"Accepted."
Then she added, "Now stop making me emotionally mature before lunch."
Owen smiled.
Nathan did too.
The break lasted three seconds.
Sam's laptop chimed.
He leaned toward the screen.
"Well."
Everybody looked at him.
He had found a cached version of a StrideCore technical support bulletin through a distributor's retired portal.
The document listed internal package identifiers for several X9 configurations.
Build 7C appeared beside the general pediatric profile.
Build 7D was labeled adult high-assist.
Build 7E had a different designation.
Sam read it twice before speaking.
"Adaptive pediatric variance pilot."
Nathan went still.
Owen looked from one adult to another.
"What does pilot mean?"
I felt my stomach turn.
Sam answered carefully.
"It can mean a limited trial before wider use."
"Trial like testing?"
"Sometimes."
Nathan held out his hand.
"Let me see."
Sam rotated the laptop.
The bulletin was dated two days after Owen received the update.
That mattered.
If the document reflected what had already been deployed, Owen could have been among the first users.
If it reflected a planned rollout, the timing still needed explanation.
Nathan pointed to a line.
"Eligible sites only."
I leaned closer.
The package description said the pilot targeted "high-variability pediatric gait profiles to improve adaptive stability modeling."
Nobody spoke for several seconds.
Then Owen said, "That's me."
His voice was not frightened.
That was worse.
It was flat.
I moved my chair closer.
"We don't know whether this was installed because of your profile."
"But it says kids who walk weird."
Nathan flinched.
"You don't walk weird."
Owen looked at him.
"Yes, I do."
"No."
"Dad."
The single word stopped him.
Owen looked back at the screen.
"They picked kids like me."
Sam closed the laptop halfway.
"We don't know how participants were selected."
"Did Dad sign something?"
Nathan answered immediately.
"No."
"Did Lauren?"
"No."
Owen looked at Sam.
"Then who said they could test it?"
Sam removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose.
"That's an important question."
Nathan reached for his phone.
Miriam said, "Don't."
He had forgotten she was still there.
"I was calling Victor."
"I know."
"This says pilot."
"I heard."
"He installed experimental software on my son."
"You do not know that yet."
"It is on his machine."
"You do not know whether 'pilot' was a regulatory trial, a staged commercial deployment, an internal release category, or something else."
Nathan stood.
"Come on."
"No."
"Miriam."
"Words still matter when you hate them."
Nathan looked ready to throw the phone through a wall.
Instead, he put it flat on the table.
Owen watched him.
That was enough to make him control himself.
Miriam asked Sam for the bulletin.
He sent it.
Then she said, "I am contacting StrideCore's counsel formally."
Nathan shook his head.
"That gives them time."
"Time to do what?"
"Clean up."
"Do not say that unless you have evidence they are destroying records."
"Somebody already changed the logs."
"Changed status markers."
"You're splitting hairs."
"I'm keeping us credible."
Nathan turned away.
I understood both of them.
May you like
That was the exhausting part.
Miriam needed proof clean enough to survive hostile scrutiny.
