Chapter 10

Security has to escort Elijah through the crowd. Cameras flash. Reporters shout questions. A white woman in a blue blazer shoves a microphone in his face: "Elijah, did anyone help you with your proof? Your parents? A teacher?"The question lands like a slap. The implication is clear: she is asking if it is really his work.Dr. Okonkwo steps between them. "His work is his own. Excuse us." She guides Elijah inside, her hand firm on his shoulder.8:00 a.m. Backstage green room.Other presenters are here: PhD candidates, postdocs, people in their twenties and thirties with degrees from Cambridge and Oxford and the Sorbonne. They look at Elijah the way you might look at a lost puppy: polite, condescending.A white man, maybe 28, smiles at him. "Hey, you're the kid from yesterday. That was really cute. My little sister loves math, too."Cute. Not brilliant. Not impressive. Cute.8:30 a.m. Judges' briefing.Dr. Park explains the rules: twenty-minute presentation, forty minutes of question and answer. Any judge can interrupt at any time with questions.The panel has expanded: twelve judges now instead of five, several flown in overnight from other universities—Princeton, Berkeley, Cambridge in England. These are not people who flew across an ocean for something cute.Whitfield is still on the panel. Conflict of interest, yes, but he is one of the world's leading experts on the Hartwell conjecture; his presence is unavoidable.8:45 a.m. Hallway outside the green room.Elijah turns a corner and nearly walks into Whitfield. They stand there, just the two of them: no cameras, no audience."Elijah." Whitfield's voice is different here: quieter, almost gentle. "Last chance. I spoke with colleagues overnight. Even if your proof is correct, you're going to be asked questions you cannot possibly answer. This isn't about math anymore; it's about optics." He leans closer. "You'll be humiliated today. Not embarrassed like yesterday—destroyed. For a 10-year-old, that means you'll be the kid who tried instead of the kid who succeeded. Think about what that will feel like."Elijah's throat is tight. "Worse than yesterday?""Yesterday was nothing. Today, six hundred experts will pick apart every word you say, every assumption you made, every logical leap. They will find the weakest point in your argument, and they will hammer it until it breaks—or until you break, whichever comes first." He straightens his tie. "I'm giving you an out, son. Take it."Elijah watches him walk away.His phone buzzes. Dr. Okonkwo: I'm scared.The response comes instantly: Good. Fear means it matters. Now go show them why.

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