Chapter 17 — Climbing Through the Storm

A week after the storm, Thắng returned to the branch office for the first time. His right arm was still in a cast, but the pain had completely reduced, enough for him to be able to ride a motorbike to work instead of having to ask Thắm to drive him.

The small meeting room was simply rearranged, with a round table instead of the formal long table usually used for official meetings, a deliberate choice by Lượng when he proposed this arrangement to the administrative department.

"Sit in a circle so no one is higher than anyone else," he explained as Thắng walked in and looked at the arrangement with mild surprise. "I think this conversation is needed."

Vu Gia Thịnh arrived on time, carrying a notebook and a small tape recorder, placing it on the table and asking permission before turning it on.

"Thank you both for agreeing to meet with me," he said, his voice still maintaining the familiar politeness. "I want to be clear up front, I didn't come here to find someone admitting mistakes on camera. I came to understand what really happened, and if possible, find out what needs to be changed."

Khánh Thi sat at a corner of the table, invited by Thắng as promised. Her hands were shaking a bit because this was the first time she participated in a conversation with the press, but she tried to maintain the necessary calmness.

"I start with a straight question," Thịnh said, opening the notebook. "Mr. Lượng, can you officially confirm that the regular maintenance budget has been cut in the past two years?"

"Confirm," Lượng replied, not dodging like before. "Cut about thirty percent compared to three years ago, according to the operating cost reduction target assigned by the corporation to a fixed percentage, applied uniformly to all branches regardless of specific infrastructure conditions," Thịnh took quick notes, then looked up and asked again.

"Do you think your allocation decision, choosing which categories to cut and keep, was correct?"

Lượng was silent for a moment, this was the most difficult question, and he knew any answer could be quoted in many different ways.

"I think I did my best within the limits assigned to me," he spoke slowly. "But I don't think allocating the budget according to a fixed percentage, without taking into account the actual conditions of each area, is the right method. Column 42's ground erosion is more serious than many other columns in the priority list for reinforcement, but because the risk score calculated by the software does not update field data in time, it is ranked behind."

"Is this an admission that the company was wrong?" Thịnh asked, his eyes sharp.

"This is an admission that the process is flawed," Thắng interjected, his voice firm. "It wasn't an individual intentionally doing something wrong, but a system that lacked a mechanism for those directly working in the field, like me, to effectively reflect factual information into resource allocation decisions. I wrote three documents. Those three documents were technically correct, but not strong enough to change a number on pre-programmed software." Thịnh nodded, took notes faster, and Khánh Thi realized the direction of the story was shifting, no longer a question of who was right and who was wrong, but gradually becoming a discussion about solutions.

"So what do you guys suggest?" Thịnh asked, putting down his pen for a moment, looking straight at both people.

Thắng and Lượng looked at each other. This was the part they had carefully prepared in their private meeting a few days earlier.

"First, establish a separate emergency maintenance fund, separate from the routine maintenance budget, funded in part by operational savings and not cut by a fixed percentage as currently," Lượng said, reading from a piece of paper he had prepared. "This fund is reserved for high-risk items discovered through field surveys, not entirely dependent on software scores."

"Second, develop a seasonal risk assessment process, updating field measurements from the operations team at least twice a year, especially before storm season, instead of relying solely on the original design documents, which may be outdated after many years," Thắng continued, his voice steady as if he were presenting a technical solution, not an accusation. "And most importantly, proposals from field teams with concrete measurement evidence must be given priority consideration, not simply queued up according to an automatic score."

Thịnh stopped writing and looked at both of them for a long time, an expression that Khánh Thi could not read whether it was clearly skepticism or impression.

"This is not what I expected when I started investigating this series," he said finally, his voice filled with genuine surprise. "I thought I would find a story of negligence, perhaps even corruption. But what I heard was a much more complex story, of a system that needed fixing, not a person that needed to be punished."

"That's exactly what we wanted you to write," Thắng said. "Not to cover for anyone, but because I believe it is the truth closer to reality," Khánh Thi spoke for the first time during the meeting, her voice trembling slightly but clearly.

"I want to tell you about the moment I climbed up the pole to save Uncle Thắng," she said, making everyone turn to look at her. "Not to make the story more dramatic, but because I think you need to understand, behind every electric pole, every budget cut, are real people, with real fears, trying their best within their limits." Thịnh nodded, turned back the paused tape recorder, and for the next half hour, Khánh Thi told her entire story, from the first training session trembling on the concrete pillar, to the moment she decided to climb up in the middle of a level eleven wind gust, not hiding the fear that was still intact in every step, and Thịnh, a reporter who was used to dry stories about data and policies, felt something tighten in his chest when listening to her.

When she finished, the room was silent for a moment, only the sound of the ceiling fan spinning overhead and the sound of traffic coming from the street.

"Thank you for sharing," Thịnh said, his voice was somewhat hoarse. "I think I have everything I need for the article. But I want to ask one more question, not for the article, but for myself. Do you blame Mr. Lượng, because the proposal to reinforce column 42 was shelved?"

Khánh Thi thought for a moment before answering. Her eyes glanced at Lượng who was sitting still, waiting for an answer with undisguised tension.

"I'm not the one who has the right to blame or forgive anyone," she spoke slowly. "But I think, if Uncle Lượng just sits still and doesn't do anything after this, I will be disappointed. Now, when he sits here, with Uncle Thắng, giving a specific direction so that this doesn't happen again, I think that's more important than determining right from wrong."

Lượng bowed his head a bit, a gesture that was both a thank you and a relief that was hard to describe in words.

"When will the article be published?" Thắng asked, as Thịnh began to pack up his notebook and tape recorder.

"I need a few more days to complete. I can ask for more official data from the corporation on cost reduction targets, so that the article is fair to all stakeholders, not just this branch," Thịnh replied. "Expected in about a week."

"Which direction will you write?" Lượng asked, unable to hide his remaining anxiety.

Thịnh stopped, looked at all three people in the room, considering his answer.

"I will write the truth," he said. "It's true that the budget was cut, it's true that column 42 fell in the right place that was warned in advance, it's true that a worker almost lost his life and a young cadet overcame his own fear to save him. But it's also true that you guys sat here, faced with the system's mistakes, and proposed a concrete fix before I could even post a word. I think readers deserve to know both parts of that truth."

The meeting ended after that, Thịnh shook hands with each person before leaving, and when the meeting room door closed, Lượng sat quietly for a moment, exhaling a long breath as if he had just relieved a rock that had been weighing heavily on his chest for many weeks.

"Thank you," he spoke to Thắng, his voice was rarely sincere. "For giving me this opportunity, instead of just leaving me to face it alone."

"We work together in the same system, Mr. Lượng," Thắng replied, stood up, and used his left hand to clumsily collect his notebook. "Fixing it should also be both of our jobs, not just one person's job." Lượng nodded, stood up, and the three of them left the circular meeting room, leaving behind an empty room but no longer as heavy as when it started.