Sloan said, "I came anyway." Mia accepted this and moved immediately to the project, gesturing at it with the authority of someone who has built something and wants you to understand exactly what you're looking at. The setup was more sophisticated than Sloan had expected from an 8-year-old. Three cardboard wing shapes of different curvatures were mounted on dowel rods at adjustable angles. A box fan sat at one end.
A series of paper streamers were positioned to show air flow. A hand-drawn chart on the display board recorded the results of 12 test runs with labels in Mia's handwriting that were slightly inconsistent in size but entirely legible. The curved wing moves the air faster on top, Mia said, pointing. Which makes less pressure, which means the air underneath pushes up. That's lift.
The flatter one barely does anything. She looked at Sloan expectantly. Bernoli's principal, Sloan said. Mia's eyes widened slightly. You know it.
I run an aviation company, Sloan said. Mia appeared to reassess her opinion of Sloan upward by several levels. She turned to Caleb. She knows it. I heard, Caleb said.
Sloan looked at the chart on the display board. The data was recorded carefully, each trial numbered, each measurement noted with a small asterisk on trial 7 and a note at the bottom that said, "Ban was wobbly. Might be wrong." She looked at that asterisk for a moment. A child who flagged her own potentially compromised data point was a child who understood something about the relationship between evidence and honesty that a lot of adults spent careers not learning.
This is excellent work, Sloan said, and she meant it without any of the performative warmth that adults sometimes apply to children's projects. Mia seemed to hear the difference. I want to be an aerospace engineer, she said. Or a marine biologist. I haven't decided.
You have time, Sloan said. That's what dad says. Mia looked at her display board with the expression of someone who is already mentally on to the next project. Can I ask you something? Sure.