“Jaylen,” she said. “Go inside.”
The boy looked between them.
“But Mama—”
“Now.”
This time, he did not move.
“Mama, he understands it.”
“That’s what scares me.”
Wendell stepped back from the table.
“Mrs. Tate, I can help.”
Her laugh was quiet and bitter.
“You people always can.”
“I don’t know what happened before, but I’m not here to take anything.”
She stared at him.
“You own Hayes Renewables.”
Wendell paused.
“Yes.”
“My husband worked for a company you bought.”
The air seemed to leave the shed.
Jaylen looked at his mother.
“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.”
