The Unquantifiable Variable
By Becky Sims
April, 2005
The Eppes family and the characters and situations from the TV show "NUMB3RS" are the property of the Scotts and the creation of Cheryl Heuton and Nick Falacci. No infringement is intended, and no profit is being made.
Epilogue
"They gave me a cane so I could do it myself," came an irritated voice from just outside the front door of the Eppes house late that evening.
Alan rushed to open it for his two sons, the larger of whom was trying to get the shorter to lean on him. Charlie's bloodsoaked jeans had been cut off and disposed of at the emergency room, and he was now wearing a baggy pair of designer sweats Alan had gotten from the store across the street from the hospital. A small bandage completely covered the few stitches in his son's forehead, but the lines between his eyes hinted at a vicious headache.
Don groaned in exasperation. "Charlie, you could barely walk from the hospital to the car, you're so sore."
"I rested up while you were driving. Now let me walk into the house on my own two feet before we scare Dad—"
"Too late," Alan said. "And believe me, I'm nowhere near as scared as I was this afternoon when I saw that grenade go off." By the grace of God, his eldest's training and his youngest's quick thinking, he hadn't lost both his boys. He swallowed and got his voice back under control. "I don't think either one of you will ever be able to give me another gray hair."
"That's because I'm gonna get 'em all," said Don.
His comment rated only a withering glance from Charlie, a sure sign to Alan that he really wasn't as well as he was pretending. He held the door open for his sons. "I don't understand why that doctor didn't keep you in the hospital at least overnight," he fussed as they made their way slowly through the living room.
"I didn't want him to," answered Charlie. He stopped in the entrance to the family room, heaved a deep sigh and visibly relaxed. "I wanted to be home."
Alan eyed him carefully, still worried that his youngest was more severely injured than he was letting on.
Don just shook his head. "I asked the doc again, after you left, Dad, just to make sure. He said that since Charlie didn't have a concussion or any broken bones, miracle of miracles, he just needed rest."
"And I can do that here as well as at the hospital. Better, actually." He headed for the couch, then simply stood in front of it. "But I think I'm going to need a little help."
They were at his side in an instant, and with one hanging on to each arm, he lowered himself carefully. Once seated, he tilted his head back and exhaled in relief. Don lifted his injured leg up onto the cushions, piling a couple pillows under the knee to support it.
"What about that officer?" Alan asked. "The girl who jumped between Charlie and the explosion. Will she be okay?"
"In time," Don said. "She took the brunt of the blast, but had protective gear so she wasn't hurt too bad." He didn't add that without it, neither she nor Charlie would have survived. He had every intention of visiting her in a day or so to thank her . . . and see if she was interested in a career change.
Alan studied his younger son. "Well, Amita's in the kitchen, watching over the soup and making tea. Strange prescription for a doctor to give out, though your mother would certainly have approved. Do you want it here or at the table?"
"Thanks, Dad, but I think I'd better stay put for now. Don, do you have those pills?"
Don patted his pockets until he located the small bottle he'd been given by the doctor. "Let me get you a glass of water."
Amita handed him one as soon as he walked into the kitchen, along with a bottle of over-the-counter headache pills as well. "For you," she said.
He grinned and rubbed at his forehead. "Thanks. And I'll take a bowl of that soup, too. What is it?" He swallowed a couple of the pills, drinking the entire glass of water without stopping.
"I don't know what it's called, but your father said it was something your mother used to make. Comfort food, as the doctor ordered."
Don sniffed appreciatively, and the familiar aroma brought back happy memories that did more to ease his headache than the pills probably would. "He meant it literally. Charlie's still pretty shaken up – I could feel him trembling all the way into the house. He's never had that kind of force used against him before; his body doesn't know how to react. Home, good food, friends, his own bed – he'll settle down a lot faster."
"You sound like you know," she commented as she dished up the soup.
"In football, we called it getting into hitting shape. You had to get used to being pummeled every training season. First few days, you'd go home so sore you'd swear you'd never be able to move again. Pretty soon, though, it passes off. This is Charlie's first time getting physically knocked around like that, on top of everything he went through inside. It's gonna take a little time."
He dropped a spoon in one of the bowls, then grabbed it and Charlie's glass of water and headed back out. He parked himself at the table, but Amita eased herself down onto the floor next to Charlie. She held the bowl up in easy reach, but gave him the spoon.
Charlie dipped into it. "Mom's soup." He tasted it, and looked up at his father with a smile. "It's just right. Thanks."
Alan nodded, then with quick strides, headed for the kitchen. Amita murmured something to Charlie, but Don got up and followed his father.
"Dad?" he asked.
Alan was standing over the sink, head bowed. "I thought . . . this afternoon, I thought I'd never see that smile again, I'd never hear his voice—" He turned and Don saw the tears in his eyes. "Thank you."
There wasn't anything Don could say that would be right. He knew what he could have done better, he knew it was just his job, but he also knew that he had to let his father say it. So he simply gathered him in his arms and said, "You're welcome."
When they returned to the dining room, it was to discover that Charlie had fallen asleep. Amita still sat on the floor next to him, leafing through a ragged pile of yellow legal-size sheets of paper.
"What're those?" Alan asked.
"Detective Nolan gave them to me to sort through. He said they were papers Charlie had been writing on. He didn't know if any of them related to the other case you guys were working on. He wants them back, if he can have them, to help complete his report."
"And?" said Don.
She shuffled them into three piles and pointed at the biggest one. "These are just doodles. Odd thoughts, nothing significant. These—" and she pointed to the second, smaller pile of about four sheets, "—look like the equations I've seen him working on lately. We should set them aside until we can ask him if he needs them." She picked up one last lone paper. "And this is an entropy chart."
Alan studied it. "Judging by the working over it's had, I'd say it was pretty important." He turned to Don. "Better keep that one safe. It might be critical to your case."
But Amita didn't pass it to him. "Actually, it's a record of this afternoon."
"What?" Don gave her a hand up and led her over to the table. She laid it down and gently smoothed the wrinkles out of it.
"Look here – the lines up and down are indicators of time passing. Here's the ascending arc that shows the progress towards chaos before the injured men are released, and then it drops down suddenly. It begins to rise again, then spikes when Jason took off his mask and Charlie talked him into releasing Leeda and Solana. It drops, but not as far. See these dots here? That's Charlie explaining it to Jason, poking at it with his pen. He's demonstrating how the system is headed toward chaos if the variables aren't reduced."
Don and Alan blinked at each other. Sure enough, it matched perfectly. "I think Nolan's really going to want a copy of this," Don muttered.
"What I don't understand," Amita said, "is why the change variable increases in value so much at the end. Looking at this chart, the system should have degenerated into complete chaos, yet because of this variable, it didn't."
"Which one is that?" Alan asked.
Amita pointed at the series of triangles that ran along the bottom of the page, one per time segment. "Something happened about here – you can see he was darkening that one on the right over and over." She shook her head. "Well, we won't get an answer out of him tonight. I'd better get home and get to bed, too." She rose and found her purse. "Would you call me when he wakes up? I guess I'd just like to know . . ."
Alan put an arm around her shoulders and guided her toward the door. "Of course I will." His voice faded as he walked her out to her car.
Don studied his brother, who had also fallen asleep on the examining table at the hospital, scaring the remaining years off his life. When Don had finished with the insurance paperwork and found his way to the cubicle where Charlie lay, he'd discovered one doctor bent over Charlie stitching the cut over his eye, a nurse wrapping gauze around his brother's swollen knee and leg, and Charlie looking like he was out cold. He'd woken at Don's feather touch, though, and smiled. And Don had finally begun to believe he'd be all right.
Don knew he couldn't leave Charlie on the couch, but was reluctant to wake him. He finally sighed and murmured his brother's name.
"Mmm?" Charlie answered.
"C'mon, buddy." He gently swung his brother's leg to the floor, got an arm behind his shoulders and gently lifted him to his feet.
"Bed?" Charlie murmured. His eyes were still closed, but he stood on his own.
Don nudged him forward a little at a time. "Yeah, I think you'll feel better if you sleep stretched out. You're going to be sore enough in the morning without adding in the extra kinks you'd get from sleeping on the couch." They made it to the stairs, and Don took a little more of his brother's weight to help him up the steps. He remembered times he'd had to do the same when Charlie had stayed up too late working on his homework for school – back then, it was because of his passionately seeking mind that lived in a body that still had a child's limitations. Charlie still pushed his physical limitations when he was on the trail of a problem, but never before had he had to do it to save his life.
Don settled him on the bed, pulled off his sweatpants and gave him a clean t-shirt – the one he was wearing still had spots of blood on it – and tucked him under the covers. It was only when he sat down in the creaky chair next to the bed that Charlie blinked open his eyes.
"Don?" His voice was soft and sleepy.
Don leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Yeah, buddy?"
"You staying?"
He had a flashback to the pleading of a boy afraid of the monsters in the closet, a boy who believed his big brother could slay any danger.
He smiled. "For a little bit. Then I'll bet Dad'll be up here and drag me into the solarium for more soup. We'll be close by if you need us."
"'kay," Charlie mumbled. His lids drooped, but then he roused again. "Don?"
"Go to sleep," Don commanded softly.
Instead, Charlie blinked a few times as if to clear his vision and bring himself back out of his deep weariness. "The triangles are delta," he said. "For Don. The variable that changed the equation to the possible." Then he smiled and gave up the battle to stay awake. His eyes fluttered shut again, his body slowly relaxed, and his breathing deepened.
And Don continued to sit by his side, guarding his brother's dreams and wondering over a mind that had found a way to add that most unquantifiable variable of all to an equation – love.
The End