Rewind 90 minutes. It's 4:00 in the morning at the Harvard Science Center, and the only person awake on the third floor is Whitney Brooks. She's 30 years old. She's been a janitor here for 10 years, and she's standing in front of a small mirror in the supply closet, pulling her hair back into the same plain bun she's worn every shift since she was 20.
She doesn't look in the mirror long. She hasn't looked in the mirror long for a decade. Her uniform is two sizes too big. Her glasses are old with white tape on the left hinge where the screw fell out 2 years ago.
Her hands are dry and cracked from the cleaning chemicals. And tucked under the bottom shelf of her cart is a battered calculus textbook held together with duct tape, a thermos of black coffee, and a folder labeled in pencil inventory Q3. Inside that folder are 92 pages of mathematics nobody at Harvard knows she's written.
Whitney pulls out her phone and calls her brother. Teddy, you up? Barely, he mumbles. He's 22, a senior at Northeastern, the boy she raised after their mother died. The boy she gave up MIT for.
Eat breakfast, real breakfast. I'm checking your bank app later. Yes, ma'am. Love you. She hangs up. She doesn't tell him about the colloquium today. She doesn't tell him about the equation on the screen in Hall G.
She hasn't told him a single thing about her own mind in 10 years. She zips her jacket. She puts her phone in her back pocket. She rolls her cart into the corridor and starts her rounds. Third floor first, always third floor first.