Between you and me, I don't think you'll last 30 seconds. Then louder, for the class. 5 Minutes, Mr. Parker. Impress me or drop my class today.
Hartwell turned to the board and started writing. The equation that would destroy his career. The chalk squeaked against the blackboard, numbers and symbols spreading like a virus. It was complex, layered, the kind of problem that made experienced mathematicians sweat. A modified Diophantine equation.
Variables tangled together like a puzzle designed by someone cruel. Notation that most undergraduates wouldn't even recognize. Hartwell stepped back, admired his work, crossed his arms. Your 5 minutes starts now. Isaiah stared at the board.
His heart should have been pounding. His hands should have been shaking. Every instinct should have told him to surrender, say he couldn't do it, sit back down, survive. But something else was happening. Something stirring in the back of his mind.
A memory. A recognition. He'd seen this equation before. Um In a notebook with his father's handwriting, dated 1994. 10.
The world narrowed. The classroom disappeared. The watching students faded to nothing. All Isaiah could see was the board. All he could hear was his father's voice.
Numbers don't lie, son. People do. His father had worked on this exact problem 24 years ago, in notebooks that nobody else had ever seen. And in the margin, three words. Solved.
Method C. Isaiah remembered the solution, every step, every transformation, every elegant twist that made the impossible possible. He raised the chalk. What are you doing? Hartwell laughed.
Don't embarrass yourself. Just admit you can't Isaiah started writing. His hand moved with certainty, numbers flowing, symbols aligning. His approach was unconventional, nothing like the textbook methods, nothing like anything Hartwell had ever seen. Because it wasn't from a textbook.
It was from a dead man's notebook. A method that had never been published, never been shared, until now. Hartwell's smile disappeared. Sha, 30 seconds. Isaiah kept writing.
One student leaned forward, then another. Something was happening. Something unexpected. 60 Seconds. The board was filling up, the solution taking shape.
Hartwell stepped closer, his face pale, his eyes scanning the work. That method That's not Where did you Isaiah didn't respond, didn't slow down, didn't look back. 90 Seconds. He set down the chalk, stepped back, turned around. Done.
94 Seconds. That's how long it took to solve an equation that had stumped mathematicians for 40 years. Yeah. The classroom was frozen. Hartwell stared at the board, his eyes moving across the solution, checking, rechecking, looking for a mistake.
There wasn't one. The solution was complete, correct, elegant. That's not possible. Hartwell's voice cracked. That's not You couldn't It's correct, sir.
Isaiah's voice was steady. You can verify it. One student started clapping, then another, then more. Stop. Hartwell raised his hand.
Everyone stop. The applause died, but the damage was done. A 19-year-old black student from the South Side had just solved what a tenured professor couldn't, in front of 40 witnesses. Hartwell spun around, face red, hands trembling. Where did you learn that method?