Chapter 72
[Rose's POV]
The clock on the wall read 9:50 PM when I finally set down the marker. My hand cramped, fingers stiff from hours of gripping the thin barrel. The whiteboard before me was covered in equations—layer upon layer of calculations that had consumed my entire evening.
"There," I said, tapping the final set of numbers. "The problem is here. Your computer overlooked the continuous mass erosion effect of solar wind on the asteroid's surface."
Grayson stepped closer, his eyes scanning the dense mathematical proofs. Dark circles shadowed his face—he'd clearly been living in this lab for days. "We set solar wind parameters in the model..."
"But you assumed constant mass for the asteroid." I cut him off, not unkindly. "In reality, it's losing material throughout its approach to the sun. That changes how it responds to gravitational fields—changes the trajectory in ways your fixed-mass model can't capture."
I picked up a blue marker and quickly outlined three different mass-loss scenarios on a clean section of board. Each assumption led to a complete set of orbital equations. I worked through them systematically, using hypothetical reasoning to test each case, then reverse-engineered the results.
"This is the real trajectory parameter," I said, drawing a horizontal line beneath the final answer.
Grayson practically ran to his workstation. His fingers flew across the keyboard, inputting the new data. Thirty seconds of tense silence. Then the screen flashed: Error margin 0.00003%.
Nathan collapsed into his chair, staring at the display in disbelief. "Three days. The computer spent three days on those calculations, and you just... beat it with a marker and a whiteboard."
"The computer is fast," I said, wiping sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand. "But it can only think within the framework humans give it. Real breakthroughs come from intuition—from seeing what the numbers are trying to tell you, not just processing them."
Elijah let out a long breath, shaking his head slowly. "Dr. Thompson said you were special. I thought he was exaggerating. I was wrong."
I set the marker down on the tray, feeling the weight of exhaustion settle into my bones. My legs trembled slightly—I'd been standing for hours without realizing it. But beneath the physical fatigue was something else. Satisfaction. The pure, crystalline satisfaction of solving an impossible problem.
"NASA can proceed with the interception mission," Grayson said quietly. He was still staring at the equations on the board. "Rose... do you understand what you just did? You might have saved millions of lives."
I didn't know how to respond to that.
"I should go," I said. "It's late."
Ashley, who'd been sitting patiently near the door for the past two hours, rolled her wheelchair forward. "Finally," she said with a slight smile. "I was beginning to think I'd have to physically drag you out of here."
---
We left through MIT's main entrance at 10:15 PM. The campus was quiet at this hour, just a few students hurrying between buildings. Street lights cast pools of amber glow across the pathways. I pulled my jacket tighter against the October chill.
Then I heard it—a car engine, deep and powerful. A black Mercedes pulled up to the curb, its sleek lines gleaming under the street lights. The driver's door swung open and Alexander jumped out, his blue-streaked hair catching the amber glow.
"Rose!" His voice carried across the empty plaza, mixing anxiety with genuine annoyance. "Do you know how many times I called? Thirty. Thirty calls!"
Ashley immediately positioned her wheelchair between us, her expression wary. "Who are you?"
"I'm her friend. Alexander Sullivan." He said it automatically, then seemed to catch himself. "I'm here to pick her up."
At the name Sullivan, Ashley's face shifted through several emotions—surprise, confusion, and something more complex I couldn't quite read. She looked between Alexander and me, clearly trying to reconcile this rebellious teenager with the cold, suit-wearing CEO she'd met earlier.
"You're Christopher's..." She paused, searching for the right word. "Brother?"
"Yep, my older brother," Alexander said, already moving past her toward me. He threw an arm around my shoulders with casual familiarity. "Ashley, I'm here to take our—" He caught himself just in time, "—take Rose home."
Ashley's eyes narrowed slightly, but she looked to me for confirmation. I nodded, too tired to explain the full complexity of our relationship. She studied me for another moment, then seemed to accept it.
"Alright," she said. "Rose, I'll email you the project updates. And please, get some actual sleep tonight."
After she left, Alexander immediately launched into his complaints. "You said we'd grab food after school! Instead you disappear to MIT for the entire evening?"
"I never agreed to that," I said, trying to step away from his arm.
"That's because your memory is terrible." He kept his grip on my shoulders, steering me toward the Mercedes. "Come on, you must be starving. I know you've been cooped up in that lab all day."
I looked at the car. "I can just call an Uber."
"Please, Rose." His voice shifted, becoming more serious. "You'll make me look bad in front of James. He specifically told me to look after you."
"Fine," I relented. "But somewhere quiet. No loud clubs or crowded bars."
"Deal." His grin returned, wide and genuine.
---
Twenty minutes later, we pulled up near Faneuil Hall Marketplace. I stared out the window in confusion. The historic building glowed under careful lighting. But surrounding it were three long market halls—Quincy Market flanked by North and South Markets—and every single one was alive with activity at 10:35 PM.
Food stalls lined the interior corridors, still open and bustling. Lobster roll counters, clam chowder shops, Italian pizza windows, Mexican taco trucks—the mingled aromas hit me even before we got out of the car. The outdoor seating areas were packed with students and tourists. A street musician played guitar near Samuel Adams' statue, his case open for tips.
This scene existed nowhere in my memory. In the 1940s, even major cities had limited nightlife.
"How about it?" Alexander said proudly, coming around to my side of the car. "This place has over two hundred years of history, but the nightlife is anything but old-fashioned. Come on, try that place's New England lobster roll—it's incredible."
He grabbed my hand and pulled me into the crowd before I could protest. We squeezed through groups of laughing students and couples taking selfies. The lobster roll vendor was grilling buns on a flat-top, the butter sizzling and filling the air with its rich scent. He split the buns, filled them with chunks of fresh lobster meat, then drizzled them with a special sauce.
"Two, please," Alexander said. "One classic, one extra butter."
I took a bite. The lobster was tender and sweet, the butter adding a luxurious richness without overwhelming the delicate seafood flavor. Before I knew it, I'd taken another bite, then another.
"Good, right?" Alexander watched me with satisfaction. "Now try the Boston cream pie shake from that place over there."
We moved deeper into the market. He bought me a shake, then fried clam strips, then a small serving of cannoli from an Italian bakery stall. We passed a vendor selling mochi donuts—colorful, Japanese-inspired pastries that looked both foreign and oddly appealing.
My expression must have shifted, because Alexander noticed immediately. "What's wrong?"
"Japanese products," I said quietly. "I can't."
He blinked, momentarily confused. Then understanding dawned. To him, World War II was ancient history, something from textbooks. To me, it had ended just yesterday—metaphorically speaking.
"Right," he said simply, respecting my boundary without question. "Let's skip it. There's a place up ahead that makes authentic Boston cream pie—the original recipe."
We found a bench outside the market halls. Around us, the plaza buzzed with activity. A small crowd had gathered around the guitarist, swaying to his acoustic cover of a Beatles song. Groups of friends laughed over shared plates of food.
Alexander sat beside me, unusually quiet for several minutes. Then: "Your time—I mean, back in the 1940s—it wasn't like this, was it? Faneuil Hall probably closed at dusk."
I took a slow sip of my milkshake, considering how to answer. "No, it wasn't like this at all. By this hour, everyone would be home. This building was just a place for meetings and daytime commerce. Not... this." I gestured at the vibrant scene around us. "Not so many people, so many choices, so much freedom to just exist in public space after dark."
"Which do you like better?"
"Each has its own meaning," I said carefully. I watched a young couple walk past, arms linked, completely absorbed in their own conversation. "That era valued family time and structured routines. People knew their neighbors. Life moved more slowly. But this era offers more freedom, more ways to express yourself, more opportunities. Even historic buildings can have new life breathed into them."
"So which one do you actually prefer?" he pressed.
"I can't go back," I said simply. "So maybe I should try to accept this one."
Alexander's face broke into a wide grin. "Now you're talking!"
I sat there on that bench, milkshake in hand, with a blue-haired teenager beside me. Around us were strangers who somehow felt friendly. Behind us stood a building that had witnessed the American Revolution, and before us spread the glittering nightlife of 2024. For just this moment, I wasn't a displaced scientist or a reincarnated mother or anyone's ancestor. I was simply an eighteen-year-old girl, enjoying the energy of a modern city on a crisp autumn night.
Maybe Alexander was right. Maybe nightlife in this era was worth experiencing after all.