thousands of potentially defective devices from reaching hospitals.
Marcus entered my office carrying the report.
“You were wrong.”
“I was.”
He waited, perhaps expecting defensiveness.
Instead, I signed the corrective-action document.
“Preserve my name beside the decision.”
He smiled.
That was the company I wanted.
Not one where I was always right.
One where nobody was powerful enough to hide being wrong.
That evening, I left work at six again.
The receptionist switched off the final lobby light after I walked outside.
For years, Grant remembered me as the woman
