I was nearby, wringing out my mop into the yellow bucket. I tried to make myself small, but I couldn’t help looking. I knew that machine. Not that specific one, but the anatomy of it. I’d spent ten years fixing rotors in sandstorms and freezing rain. I knew how they breathed.
I saw the open panel near the rotor housing. I saw the way the coupling was seated. It wasn’t a computer error. It was mechanical. It was off by a hair—literally millimeters.
Without thinking, I stepped a little closer. “It’s the coupling alignment,” I whispered, mostly to myself.
But the hangar was dead silent, and my voice carried.
Veronica spun around. Her heels clicked sharply on the concrete as she marched toward me. The engineers looked at me like I was a bug they had forgotten to squash.
“Excuse me?” Veronica asked, her eyes narrowing. She looked at my name tag, then at my dirty sneakers. “Did the janitor just offer a technical opinion?”
A few engineers snickered. My face burned hot. I gripped the mop handle so tight my knuckles turned white.
“I… I just said it looks like the coupling alignment, Ma’am,” I stammered, trying to keep my voice steady. “If you adjust the torque on the lateral bolts, it might settle the vibration.”
The silence stretched for a painful five seconds. Then, Veronica threw her head back and laughed. It was a harsh, dismissive sound.
“Well, gentlemen,” she said, turning back to her highly paid team. “Apparently, we’re overpaying you. The guy who cleans the toilets thinks he knows more about aerodynamics than you do.”
