Neil went to Dr. Sutter directly. He found her in the conference room reviewing 50 days of failure reports with reading glasses perched on the end of her nose. He told her everything: the girl at the fence, the theory, the overlaid logs.
Dr. Sutter listened without interrupting. When Neil finished, she asked one question: "Where is she now?"
They met in the break room. Faith sat across from Dr. Sutter with nothing but a paper cup of water and her grandfather's tool roll on the table between them. Dr. Sutter didn't introduce herself. She didn't make small talk. She looked at Faith and said, "Tell me what's wrong with that aircraft."
Faith told her. She spoke for six minutes: no notes, no hesitation. She described the crossfeed valve system, the fuel distribution architecture, the sensor feedback loop, and the specific failure mode she believed was causing the symmetrical shutdown—all in technical language precise enough to pass a graduate-level oral exam.
Dr. Sutter asked three follow-up questions. Each one was designed to test whether Faith truly understood the system or had simply memorized terminology. Faith answered all three without pausing.
Dr. Sutter removed her glasses. She cleaned them slowly with the hem of her blazer. She put them back on. She looked at Faith the way you look at something you didn't think existed anymore.
"I'd like to see you demonstrate this," she said.
The next morning, Hangar 3 was full. Dr. Sutter had used her authority as independent evaluator to authorize what she called a "diagnostic demonstration." She'd invited Preston, Todd, the entire engineering team, and she hadn't objected when Colleen Archer walked in with a recorder.
Preston saw Faith standing near the engine nacelle and his face went dark red. "Lorraine, you can't be serious. You're staking your professional reputation on a street kid?"
Dr. Sutter didn't look at him when she answered. "I'm staking my reputation on evidence, Preston. Something your team hasn't produced in 50 days."