Chapter 13: Fair Fight

On Monday at ten the Ridgeline demo started, and I had not slept.

The fourth-floor demo room has a gray carpet, a rolling rack of prototypes, and a long table for judges.

Odette sat at the middle of the table with her reading glasses on her nose.

Kip sat beside her in his company fleece, with a leather folder and a smile.

Drake and I stood at opposite ends of the carpet.

He wore the navy suit with the vest buttoned and his sleeves rolled to the elbow.

He looked at me once, a long flat look, and nothing in it was gentle.

My stomach dropped, and I felt wonderful.

"The rules are simple," Odette said. "Each of you presents your half of the Ridgeline Kit."

"Then each of you tells me what is wrong with the other half."

"Every flaw out loud. Every number on the table. I'll score the round."

Kip leaned forward. "And may the best director win."

"I wasn't talking to you, Kip."

His smile stayed where it was.

I went first.

I had pitched my Switchback two-person tent on the carpet that morning, all four pounds nine ounces of it.

I walked them through the pole hub, the rain-fly stitch I'd drawn on a napkin, and the vestibule that opens in one pull.

I talked fast and loud, the way I do when I know I'm good.

Odette wrote something down.

Drake stood with his hands folded and listened to every word.

When I finished, he said, "Thank you, Szymanski."

Then he walked to the tent and crouched at its far corner.

"Your rain fly is excellent," he said. "I'll start there so nobody thinks I'm petty."

"Thank you."

"It leaks at the corner seam."

I opened my mouth.

"I ran your prototype under the spray rig last night, after midnight. Forty minutes at storm rate."

"By minute twenty-two, the northeast corner had taken on water."

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