At first, nobody paid any attention to this ordinary math class.
It was only another easy review, another ordinary failure of coordination between a TA and professor, another unremarkable quiz.
Until Zhuge Tianyao discovered that the time was already 6:27 p.m.
Currently available intelligence: the author spends an hour each day riding the Silver Line train and driving between home and school. Inexplicably, although this line opened only last year, trains arrive just once an hour outside peak times, in flagrant disregard of the economic principle that supply should rise with demand.
Mm-hmm. The Silver Line was due in three minutes.
I despairingly typed “Looks like I won’t be home until 8:30 🥲” into the chat, yet still clung to one last scrap of hope: but what if?
Incredibly, my emotions remained perfectly stable. The quiz problem had just been explained. Good. There were three ways to solve it: one was ideal for a speedrun but demanded astonishing concentration; one looked convenient but a certain person had never used it; the last was the dumbest, but I had already used it several times and knew it by heart. The answer was obvious. Domain Expansion!
My hand moved faster than thought. At the final step, unease struck: how could this equation possibly have a solution? A closer look revealed that the two subquestions appeared in the exact opposite order from the example we had just covered. There was no time to celebrate. Linearly dependent became L.D.; linearly independent became L.I. The next challenger to enter the battlefield was…
Last week’s quiz, being handed back! The TA unhurriedly drew a thick stack of papers from a folder, methodically searched through it, and then, at the same measured pace, passed down that cicada-wing-thin sheet of white. I took it, thrust it straight into my bag, grabbed the armful of supplies I had picked up from the Food Pantry earlier—and nearly abandoned at the esports center—and charged out the door.
Real men never look back to see their classmates’ reactions.
I sprinted the whole way, the sandals on my feet occasionally splitting into grins to mock me. A glance at the time revealed that everything I had just done had taken less than three minutes. The Silver Line would arrive in three minutes.
There was no time to wonder whether the Silver Line or Red King had reached Earth first. Instead, I considered whether this temple of a body—which had failed to begin a running routine even once all semester and had unfortunately hurt its back during last week’s soccer tournament—might collapse beneath one final straw. My conclusion: I do not care about any of that. The evening sun scattered its last rays across the earth. Setting aside the fact that it was still over 35°C outside, the scene was rather poetic. Hardly anyone was on the paths home, and there were fewer cars than usual. Apparently 6:30 was not a normal time for class to end. (Oh, right. This linear-algebra class was theoretically supposed to finish at 6:50.) I flew past pedestrians in twos and threes, utterly ignoring the uproar of the pasta I had brought for my little brother tumbling around inside the enormous bag. ♿️ Sprint ♿️—go!
What awaited the proud young man ahead was not a miracle, but a traffic light. It stood at the intersection like the world’s most impartial judge, directing the traffic with perfect rationality. (Fine, there was no traffic.) For an instant, the thought of simply dashing across flashed through my mind, but the truck by the road quickly dissuaded me. Farewell, my journey to another world. Under the influence of relativity, time stretched without limit. I became Zeno’s tortoise, unable to cross the vast chasm of one pedestrian crossing and its white stripes. I felt the helplessness of Job deep within me: “Thus far shall you come, and no farther,” rang out with the weight of law.
One second passed. Then two. Nobody had forbidden me from checking the time. At last I began to pray, clutched this final life-saving straw, and opened my phone. 6:33 stared back at me—the exact time the train was scheduled to arrive.
By all rights, this is where the reversal should come. But since I just said that, there probably was no reversal. Except in fact there was. I thought you were about to mess with me, but then you didn’t—isn’t that itself messing with me?! I opened the Transit app. Right on schedule, the train was delayed. When had I fallen under the illusion that the Silver Line would arrive on time? The walk signal turned white. (Should it technically be called a red-and-white light? Why does that sound like a funeral and a wedding being held together?) My body became an arrow released from the bow, racing toward the station, racing toward freedom.
I rounded the corner and could faintly make out the station ahead. The Silver Line’s estimated arrival was now 6:37. The current time was 6:35. The hammer fell; the outcome was settled; all dust returned to earth. In other words, Zhuge Tianyao had won!
Fine. This entire entry was just an elaborate setup for that final sentence. As I staggered breathlessly into the station, the crossing gates slowly descended, and the train’s bright headlight emerged from the distant twilight. I knew this one was in the bag. Bursting with excitement, I typed into the chat: “I broke the limits of humanity. Home by 7:30!”
Of course, it would have been even better if, after arriving, I had not spent five miserable minutes digging through my backpack for my keys—worrying first that all the bouncing during my run had thrown them from my pocket, then that in my morning rush I had left them in the car—only to find them at last in the deepest compartment at the very bottom of the entire bag.