“Probability calculations,” Richard repeated, a real, unscripted warmth spreading across his weathered face.

“You solved probability calculations at eight years old?”

“Numbers are reliable,” Sam said.

“They don’t change their values when people get upset.”

Margaret let out a quiet breath, stepped around the leather sofa, and knelt on the rug beside Sam.

She reached out her hand, holding it just an inch from his blue wool sleeve.

“He has your exact analytical mind, Richard,” Margaret said, looking up at her husband through her tears.

“He looks at a page the same way you studied briefs thirty years ago.”