The weight of the digital evidence, and the ethical dilemma it presented, pressed down on me. I spent nights staring at the ceiling, replaying conversations with Dr. Albright.
Leo noticed. He’d often find me staring blankly, a half-eaten dinner plate before me.
“Mom,” he said one evening, his voice soft. He was sitting on the floor, surrounded by his father’s old engineering notebooks. His father, a brilliant inventor, had filled them with diagrams and calculations.
“You look sad,” he added, without looking up.
“It’s just… work,” I managed, a weak excuse.
Leo flipped a page in a notebook. “Dad wrote about this,” he said, tracing a finger over a detailed drawing. “It’s a tiny camera. He designed it to fit inside a prosthetic joint, see? For surveillance or just… observation.”
My heart gave a painful lurch. It was an exact diagram of the camera integrated into his own prosthetic leg. A gift from his late father, a way to always be connected.
“He even designed a micro-drone,” Leo continued, looking up, his eyes bright. “Small enough to be almost invisible. For secret missions.”
He smiled, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Maybe I could make my drone even *more* secret. So it could help us find the bad guys.”
His bravery, his desire to help, stung me. He was connecting with his father’s legacy, not just in engineering, but in a deeper, more courageous way. My fight wasn’t just for me; it was teaching Leo how to stand up for himself.
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