HARRY’S BUS DROPPED him off at the entrance to the University of Chicago campus. Despite the February Friday being gray and crisp, the sidewalk was free of ice patches and snow. Clumps of shoveled slush bordered the sidewalk. Since he was early, Harry spent an hour exploring before heading to Dr. Peterson’s office.

Carrying the file box containing his paper—2,635 pages bound into twelve booklets—Harry ambled through the quad, past the library, and through the science building. Students strolled by discussing their classes, papers they needed to write, and lectures they’d attended. As they bemoaned their workloads, Harry imagined how Omnicalcumetry would reshape their campus once it became known that the University of Chicago was the first institution to recognize his theory’s brilliance.

Harry envisioned two statues under the arches at the campus’s entrance, one replicating his likeness in marble, and the second an effigy of Dr. Peterson, his soon-to-be champion. The science building would be renamed The Harry Erickson Building for the Development of Curious Minds, and the library would be named after Sarah—The Sarah Erickson Library for Reading Good Books and Not for Random Hookups on the Fourth Floor. (This would happen years later, once Sarah became the caretaker of the Erickson estate and made a sizable donation to the university. Although the donation would be less than one percent of Harry’s total fortune, it would still be large enough to inspire the school’s board of directors to rename the library.) Visualizing this future, Harry stumbled around, his eyes glazed over, making some of the students wonder if he’d just come from the Albert Hofmann Creative Chemistry Building and Bicycle Track.

The campus clock chimed once; the sound of Jerry Garcia’s guitar carried across campus. Dr. Peterson’s office hours had begun.

The professor’s office was at the end of a long hallway. Marble floors, which signaled the office belonged to someone important and classy, not like linoleum—linoleum was reserved for high school vice principals and rental car offices—sent the slap of Harry’s footsteps hurtling straight to a door marked Dr. Christopher Peterson, PhD.

Harry knocked on the wooden door but didn’t hear the response “Come in and amaze me,” like he’d expected. Harry knocked again. Nothing.

He put his ear to the door, listening for the sound of chalk on a blackboard or a slightly German accent advising a student on the third law of motion. Instead, he heard someone coughing, and he smelled the curious scent of a sugary breakfast cereal.

“Hello.” Sticking his head in the door, Harry expected to see the office of his dreams—a giant blackboard against the wall with an impossible equation scribbled on it, awards lining the bookcase, photographs with famous physicists on the wall, and Dr. Peterson punching away on a typewriter with only his index fingers, because Dr. Peterson was old-school and liked the clack of the letters and the ding when he reached the end of a line.

But there was nothing remarkable about Dr. Peterson’s office, none of the sentimentality Harry had hoped for. The office held a wooden desk with a laptop on it, a small bookcase filled with copies of Dr. Peterson’s books, and one window with a view of students lying in the grass, giggling at passing clouds. The laptop was closed, and the desk’s chair was turned so it faced the wall. A puff of smoke rose from the chair.

“It’s my office hours,” someone from the other side of the chair said. “Can’t you kids just let me vape in peace?”

“Pardon the intrusion,” Harry said. “If I were your pupil, I’d certainly know to leave you be, but alas, I’m not. Furthermore, I have something of critical importance to discuss with you, something that, I believe, will greatly impact both our lives.”

The man spun his chair around, leaned back, and rubbed his thinning blond hair. His skin was red, his face swollen from years of alcoholism. He placed a small black box to his mouth and puffed, then exhaled, filling the room with a large fruity-smelling cloud.

“You’re interrupting my practice sesh for the Vape Olympics,” Dr. Peterson said. “That was about a 9.3. Nah, I’m just fucking with you. I don’t have time for that shit.”

This was Dr. Peterson? This was the man who would become a prophet for Omnicalcumetry? The weight of the cardboard box tugged on Harry’s arms, causing his shoulders to ache. It didn’t matter what Dr. Peterson looked like; he could have been wearing a puka shell necklace and had a soul patch; his credentials still made him the perfect candidate to spread the message of Omnicalcumetry.

“Dr. Peterson,” Harry said, determined to proceed with his presentation. “I sent you an email Tuesday regarding a discovery I made.”

“Yeah, I don’t read emails. They’re usually just bitch-ass students asking for extensions on their bullshit projects.”

“Regarding my discovery, I was hoping to discuss it with you.”

“Are you the guy who’s invented beer laced with 3,4-Methylenedioxy-methamphetamine? An IP-MDMA. Because if that’s what’s in the box, I’ll have a whole sixer of that shit.”

“Actually,” Harry said, undeterred, “what I wish to discuss is by far more important.”

“Wait a second,” Dr. Peterson said, suddenly focused. “I know you, don’t I?”

“I don’t believe so.”

“Yeah. Yeah. Did you go to IU in, like, ’96?”

“I attended IU briefly around that time.”

“Did you ever go to any parties at the Gamma house?”

“My brief time at university was spent in study and contemplation,” Harry said. But this was a lie. He had attended one frat party with Amanda.

“Did you know… Hold on. No way. This can’t be. Harry. Harry Erickson. Is that you, bro?” Dr. Peterson pointed at Harry with both his hands, the universal sign of bro recognition.

“How do we know each other?”

“You lying sack of shit!” Dr. Peterson smiled. “You did come to one of our ragers. You and that skeezer Amanda.” From the magical dimension where red plastic cups are kept when not being misused, Dr. Peterson produced a red plastic cup and spit chewing tobacco into it.

This slobbering reminder stunned Harry, and a realization hit him in the temporal lobe like humiliating memories returning during a tequila hangover. He did know Dr. Peterson.

“Topher P.?” Harry said, shocked. “Where’s Dr. Peterson, the theoretical physicist? It’s urgent I speak with him.”

“Bro, you’re looking at him. Dr. Christopher Peterson, in the motherfucking flesh.”

Behind Topher P., several diplomas hung on the wall, conferring upon him advanced degrees in particle physics, astrophysics, theoretical physics, and Krav Maga. On the bookshelf, one of the copies of Dr. Peterson’s books had been turned around; Topher P. grinned from the back of the book’s dust jacket like someone who had just been acquitted of a misdemeanor.

“Fuck. Harry Erickson. I knew it was you. What happened to you, bro? Last I heard you got Amanda preggers and dropped out of school.”

“We married and had a daughter.”

“Is she a freak like her mom? I bet she is.”

Harry slammed his box on the desk. “Watch it, Topher.”

“Jeez. A guy drops out of college and he loses his sense of humor.”

“Jesus Christ.” Harry collapsed in the chair opposite Topher P. He plopped his box on his lap, draped his arms over it. He’d spent his life wanting to be the person who dashed equations onto the blackboard, the author of multiple books explaining controversial theories—hence the box on his lap—but Topher P., not Harry, had accomplished those goals. Topher P. was living Harry’s life. All Harry could say was, “Why? How?”

“Bro, did you think you were the only one who was into science? Seriously, that’s some stuck-up shit right there. I’ve dedicated my life to this science game. And,” he added offhandedly, “I micro-dose on the regs. It helps with the creativity.”

Harry sat there staring at the life he should have lived.

“Look,” Topher said. “I can tell this is a big shock for you. The guy you thought was just some dumbass frat boy turns out to be a world-famous physicist and is friends with Neil deGrasse Tyson, BT-dubs. So why don’t you tell me why you dragged that big-ass box into my office.”

Harry had memorized his opening statement. It started with, “Throughout the history of humanity, there has been one common thread: the search for knowledge…” and ended with “… I’m proud to present Omnicalcumetry, the final phase in scientific understanding.” But seeing Topher vaping in his fake leather chair—a chair Harry would have had had he stayed in school and become a professor—Harry couldn’t remember his seventeen-minute introductory speech.

Instead, he said, “A while ago, I was contemplating the differences between quantum mechanics and general relativity, wondering why we have yet to conceive the elusive ‘theory of everything,’ and it dawned on me that there was a fundamental flaw in our view of both theories.”

“Here we go,” Topher said. “Say the magic words. Come on, you know you want to.”

“I’m not sure what you’re alluding to.”

“This is where you tell me you think Einstein was wrong, and you, a college dropout, have solved the mysteries of the mechanics of the universe.”

“Einstein wasn’t wrong,” Harry said.

“Good.”

“He was misguided.”

“Jesus Christ!” Topher threw up his hands, holding on tight to his vape pen.

“But I’ve devised a solution to steer us back from Einstein’s wrong turn. For the past eight years, I’ve been crafting a theory of my own.”

“Your own theory of everything?”

“Exactly. But it’s more than just a theory. I’ve conceived a methodology that explains and calculates everything from the true speed of light to predicting the shape of snowflakes with one hundred percent accuracy.”

“And it’s in that box.” Topher pointed with his vape pen.

“Omnicalcumetry—”

“What the fuck did you call it?”

“Omnicalcumetry is the revolutionary study of everything. I’ve crafted a two thousand-page paper that includes a thesis, pedagogical instruction manual, and flash cards for children. All with the—”

“Okay, okay,” Topher said. “Jesus Christ, Harry. I can’t believe I’m saying this. Let me see the first couple of pages.”

“But the paper needs to be read in its entirety to perceive the scope of Omnicalcumetry.”

“Do you think I have the time to read two thousand pages of your bullshit? Just hand me the first five.”

Harry opened the box and removed the first bound section. He flipped past the title page, the dedication page, and the thirteen-page table of contents to the official page one and handed the section to Topher.

Topher read the pages, slowly at first, then he flipped through them, going back to page one, as though he were backtracking a thought. Topher tapped the bound section against his desk, then handed it back to Harry.

“Okay, Harry,” Topher said. “I have one question.”

This was the moment Harry had been waiting for—a chance to defend his thesis. Topher would ask him some perceptive questions, and his insightful and compelling answers would convert Topher to the cause of Omnicalcumetry. Topher would then become the unlikely prophet he needed to spread his theory globally. It would be the intellectual exchange every physicist dreamed of. Harry scooted toward the edge of his seat.

“What the fuck are you thinking?” Topher asked. “Do you honestly think, you—a college dropout, a guy who looks like he’s a grade school janitor—”

“A nursing home. I work at a nursing home.”

“… has more insight than the combined scientific community? People much smarter than me—and after reading this, I can say with one hundred percent confidence way smarter than you—have been working on a way to justify relativity and quantum mechanics for close to a century. What makes you think you know more than they do?”

“Everything I claim in my thesis, I’ve proven mathematically.” Harry dug into his box and handed Topher the booklet with the equation.

“Is this a coloring book?” Topher held up a page. A black-and-white giraffe stood under a palm tree, a word balloon suspended above him.

“That’s the wrong page.” Harry flipped to the equation and handed it back to Topher.

“This is just gibberish,” Topher said, tossing the stack of equations toward the box.

Mumbling about respecting the proper order of his paper, Harry shuffled section seven back into its original place, right after the section with instructions on how to host an Omnicalcumetry-themed book club, including discussion topics and wine recommendations.

Topher puffed on his vape pen. “Harry, do you know how many calls I get from people—normal folks with everyday jobs—thinking they’ve disproved Einstein’s theory of general relativity? At least five a day. And they all have the same pitch. Their theory will make everyone rich. They’ll be able to pull their family out of poverty, provide for their grandchildren, whatever. They even say they’ll give me a cut of the profits if I help them out. What they really need to do is be honest with themselves. If they did, they’d realize they don’t give a shit about their families. They’re not doing this for them; they’re doing it for themselves.

“With every single person I talk to, it’s obvious they’ve reached a point at which they think all their best opportunities are behind them, and they don’t see how they can better their lives in a realistic way. Instead, they sink into this delusion that they’re the only ones with the answers, the only ones who know the truth, because fantasies of wealth and fame are easier than dealing with their own mediocrity. I know it sounds harsh, but that’s what these people are: mediocre. They’re not undiscovered geniuses. They’re just average people who mistakenly use their families as fuel for their delusions. Jesus, that’s a big box, Harry. How many years did you spend on that thing?”

“Eight.”

“Eight years? That’s exactly what I’m talking about. You could have been trying to get a better job or gone back to school, things that are doable. Instead, all you have to show for that time is a box of shit.”

In the commons, a student bent to one knee and proposed to his girlfriend. She looked at her friends and started laughing before chasing after a kid who dealt Molly behind the Trey Anastasio Aquarium.

“I know you’re disappointed,” Topher said. “The people who call me always are. But look, you have a second chance. You can go back to Bloomington—I’m assuming you’re still there; guys like you never leave that town—and start living your life again.”

Harry put the lid on his box, sealing his paper inside. He stood, pushing back his chair. Its legs scraped on the floor. “You’re right,” he said. “This isn’t the outcome I was hoping for. But I appreciate your honesty.” Harry gathered his box and started for the door.

“Harry, wait,” Topher said. “I can’t leave things like this.”

Maybe Topher had suddenly realized Harry was right and was ready to help take Omnicalcumetry global? Thinking he’d misjudged Topher, Harry turned back toward the desk, hope renewed.

“Bro, can I get a selfie?” Topher held out his phone. “Topher, Jaxson, and the rest of the guys will never believe I ran into you if I don’t get a pic.”

“Sure,” Harry said, feeling defeated for the first time in eight years. Even when he signed the divorce papers granting Amanda custody, he hadn’t felt as low as he did when Topher put his arm around him and asked him to flash a peace sign as he took their picture.

Topher patted Harry on the back, almost shoving him out of his office. As Harry walked down the hall, he could have sworn he heard Topher on the phone saying, “Can you believe that asshole?”

Harry drifted through campus—past the sociology building where students learned how to argue with their families about their privilege, the history building offering courses in ancient aliens, and the improv comedy hall. He finally sat on a rock wall bordering a pond. Ducks paddled in circles, swimming into each other and squawking as though they were intoxicated bumper cars.

But Harry wasn’t watching the ducks. Harry was in his mansion.

He pulled up in his convertible, smoke from the engine clouding his windshield. Vines had climbed the pillars at the mansion’s entrance, wrapping around the columns and choking them. The windows had been boarded up; no light shone through the cracks between the planks. The front steps were broken and uneven, and when Harry heaved open the moldy door, he stepped not into his mansion, but into his old home on South Jackson Street.

He had just returned from a long day of throwing out adult diapers. Amanda handed over an eighteen-month-old Sarah. She was crying; her teeth were starting to come in. Harry carried Sarah into the next room so Amanda, surrounded by open books, could study at the kitchen table. Harry’s mind grumbled as he rocked Sarah to sleep.

A duck tugged on Harry’s shoelace, and he kicked it away.

Harry knew Topher was right. The reason he’d written his paper and spent years fine-tuning it into an all-encompassing masterwork had nothing to do with providing a better life for his family or making Amanda fall in love with him again. It was about his need to prove he was more than a janitor, that he was special. He’d always regretted dropping out of school and secretly resented Amanda for earning her degree while he worked a menial job with no hope of advancement. He was never able to return to school. The financial burden of raising a daughter near the poverty line kept him mopping up after incontinent seniors. When the seed for Omnicalcumetry floated across the ether and planted itself in his consciousness, Harry saw it as his moment of genius. Finally, he had an opportunity to shift his focus to his intellectual pursuits, where it should have been all along. The daydreams of fictitious achievements and a life free from financial worry were rationalizations, the mental juggling he performed to justify spending all his time working on Omnicalcumetry and neglecting his family.

The ducks swarmed Harry, expecting to receive morsels of bread, but he didn’t have any bread, just two thousand pieces of paper bound into twelve booklets. With jagged beaks, the ravenous mallards nipped at his toes. Harry lurched back, rolling onto the brown lawn. The lid flew off his box. The twelve volumes spilled out and darted across the dead grass, their pages flapping like the wings of an albatross.

Harry chased them through the park. He grabbed at the texts and threw them back into the cardboard box, not worrying about their order or if their pages were ripped, only trying to salvage eight years of his life.

The last manual flailed against a tree, sticking to its trunk. Harry grabbed it and flipped through the document, brushing bark from its pages. It was a section he’d forgotten about—which is easy to do when one’s masterwork is over two thousand pages—fifty-seven pages outlining a multitiered marketing strategy for getting his paper to the masses. Harry reread it, slowly this time, and laughed, rolling on the ground. He didn’t need Topher P. or the scientific community. Harry had already drafted the blueprint for his own success.