“It’s homework,” Aileen said, snatching the paper back. “We’re supposed to take a crack at Loussac’s Number.”

Gale cocked a pierced eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean? Have pity on your poor art major roommate, Ail.”

“Pierre Loussac,” Aileen huffed, “was one of the great mathematical minds of the last century. When they found him dead at his desk in 1987, he was holding a piece of paper that said ‘28,114.’”

“Good for him,” said Gale. “So your assignment is to do the same and die with that number in your hand?”

“That number is one of the great unsolved mysteries in mathematics,” Aileen said. “It’s not prime, it’s not one of a hundred other kinds of special numbers that make art majors’ heads pop like overripe grapes. My assignment it to come up with a reason behind Loussac’s Number.”

“Good to see they’ve got their standards nice and high.”

“I’ll fail. So will everybody else. And that’s exactly the point.”