A story in 8 chapters plus an epilogue.
I'm posting the first chapter in its entirety (three sections),
then we'll see how it goes from there.

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. With grateful thanks to all of the creative minds behind the show, as well as to "M" for her beta and Mac for the math that is the underpinning of the story. He took my initial idea and explained and expanded until the story took wing.

Chapter One, Part One

Charlie Eppes was surprised to discover that he was happy.

It wasn't that this was a new or particularly unusual feeling for him. The sheer pleasure of creating a new equation was glorious, and making and having dinner with his father satisfied something deep inside. And when he finished a project with his big brother and Don grabbed him at the neck and squeezed gently, the world was darn near perfect. This, though, was different.

What was so odd about it was that he – the math prodigy of CalSci, a full tenured professor for over three years (even though he hadn't yet reached thirty), a man courted by the NSA, the CDC, the FBI, and several other alphabetical organizations for help with their most difficult problems – he, for the first time in his life, was having a wonderful time simply browsing in a store.

It wasn't that he never went shopping, but that was usually an exercise in efficiency. He'd discover that he needed something, figure out which store to go to, head for the right aisle, pick out the right item in the right size, make the purchase, and get on with his day. He had loved shopping for clothes with his mother – she knew places where clothes were simply and comfortably cut, but were made from fabrics woven with the most interesting patterns. Then there were the few stores where he'd get lost – in his head, that is – and not come out for hours. Those tended to be places that were full of intricate gadgets. He could remember being caught by surprise by a frantic roar from his father on a shopping trip when he was eight. He'd known where he was, in front of what he'd later learned was called a "Newton's Cradle" – a 5-ball pendulum-type setup that demonstrated the conservation of momentum – and hadn't understood what the fuss was about.

Neither had Don, as he recalled with a grin. There were days back then when Don would have been happy to permanently lose his little brother. Sixteen-year-olds simply were not equipped to handle a brother half their age who could do their high-school homework with ease. While Charlie's particular expertise was mathematics, he generally aced his other courses as well since his parents wouldn't allow him to work extracurricular math projects until his homework was done, and would cut him off completely if he brought home less than a B. Not that his brother was exempt from the requirement for good grades, either. They knew he had his share of intelligence as well, and they'd cut him off from his beloved baseball for a C.

Charlie wandered down another aisle and stopped in front of a display. So many choices . . . would his father like this color? Or maybe that one? Technically, it didn't matter. It was his life, his money and – even his brother agreed – his decision. But if you could drag Charlie's attention away from whatever problem he was working on long enough for him to notice the world around him, he simply couldn't make a decision that would upset his father. Not when he could avoid it. There had been too many times he'd hurt his family over things he couldn't control.

He held two of the pieces of thin card stock up to the light. The store had big plate-glass windows along the front, and someone had placed all the merchandise that needed a bright, clear light nearby. He cocked his head to one side and squinted at them, trying to decide if there really was a color difference, or if it was simply the material they were made of that made them look so different.

"Havin' a little trouble there, Charlie?"

"These are the same?" he asked.

The store's owner and manager, Benito Mendez, peered at the two slips of colored paper and stroked his luxurious white moustache. "Depends. Same color, but different finish. Which one you want depends on what you're gonna do. If you're gonna paint a bedroom wall, you want this one. Gonna do furniture or some surface you gotta wash all the time, like a bathroom or kitchen, you might want the other." He raised an eyebrow at his young friend. "You ain't gonna paint the outside of that house of yours, are you?"

"Stain rather than paint – Pasadena Heritage wouldn't let me do anything else. But, no, I'm not ready to take on that project. One step at a time, just like you said. Though I'll have to do something soon. Dad said it's been about ten years."

Benito chuckled. "Handy, havin' the previous owner around to tell you when and what things was done."

Charlie grinned. "Dad didn't realize what he started that first time he sent me to the basement to work on the heater."

"Bet you didn't either."

Charlie ran his eyes over the neat rows of paint samples. Their order appealed to him. They were all neatly stowed in their slots, arranged from left to right by hue, top to bottom by intensity. "No . . . no, I didn't." On impulse, he added, "Don and my dad are always telling me I need to get out into the world more, get my head out of the classroom, away from the chalkboard and computer."

"That's mostly good advice." The old man paused while he took off his glasses and held them up to the light. He pulled an embroidered linen handkerchief from his pocket and used it to rub the lenses clean. Only after he'd finished his routine did he turn back to his customer. "You're a bright young fella; what's been keeping you from following it?"

"Well, I only have so much time." Charlie suddenly realized how that sounded. "No, not that! It's just that mathematicians do their best work when they're young. I've learned everything I can as fast as I can, because I know it won't be too long before I won't be able to see things as clearly, won't be able to make the connections, find the answers."

He pressed his fingers against his temple as if the pressure would help him put his thoughts into words. "Not that it's always easy now, but my mind – it's sharp. It's ready. Sometimes it's so full of thinking that I feel like I'm riding on the top of a speeding train, seeing and understanding and absorbing everything that goes by. I know I'll lose that someday." He stopped suddenly and shrugged as if it wasn't important.

Benito wasn't fooled. He saw all kinds of people – Pasadena had a large number of early 20th century Craftsman-style houses, along with their owners who tended to get involved in projects that required hardware stores. While this mop-headed young man was surely the most brilliant of his customers, he wasn't the most obsessed. He'd seen the same fear in other eyes, and less warranted. "Y'know, son, we all slow down as we get older, but most of us don't notice until we get up out of bed one day and find out the bones are gettin' a mite creaky. It's just that, when you got work as delicate as you do, you see it sooner."

Charlie felt the sharp edges of crumpled pasteboard against his palm. He hadn't realized he'd crushed the sample cards and tried to flatten them back into their original shape. "I don't want to do anything else," he muttered. "I've never wanted to do anything else." He looked up, and he felt the fire of his passion for mathematics rise up inside. "It's me. It's who I am, who I've always been."

Benito slapped him on the back. "Change comes to all of us, but it don't have to come to you yet, an' when it does, it don't have to be a bad thing. You got a choice – you can take it on or you can mope about it, but it's gonna happen either way. Think about it, though. Would it really be so bad to find a nice young lady someday, settle down to raise a few curly-headed math geniuses – or maybe a doctor or a piano player, or who knows what?"

Something inside Charlie relaxed, and a grin teased at the corner of his mouth. "No, that wouldn't be so bad."

"So go look at the new wrenches," he laughed, "and don't worry about tomorrow until it comes."

Charlie nodded and tucked the two color samples in his pocket. He headed back to aisle 23, his thoughts turning over what the wise old man had said, balancing the present against the future. No, he mused with a slow smile, that might not be so bad at all.