She tilts her head, smiles. “You can’t use that term forever. Not when you’ve been living here for over three years, Penny.”

I hear the words. But I don’t believe them. This can’t be true. I just moved in.

“You’re lying! Where’s Jack? Where’s Hilbert?”

“Jack has the day off.”

I don’t say anything.

“Would you like to see Hilbert? You just have to promise not to disturb him.”

“I want to see him.”

“Okay, come on, I’ll take you to him. Let’s go.”

She helps me with my IV.

Shelley opens Hilbert’s door and waits for me to enter first.

I see him. He’s there. Right in front of me. He’s lying in his bed, asleep. He’s tucked in tightly, the covers up to his chin. He’s unshaven. I’ve never seen him with such long whiskers and his hair disheveled. As I get closer, I reach out and pick up the book on his bedside, Noncommutative Geometry and Number Theory: Where Arithmetic Meets Geometry and Physics. He’s written a few lines in pencil on the margin of the page it’s open to.

Ask Penny if she finds it comforting that there are mathematical proofs of impossibility. Example: Trisecting an angle. Divide any angle into three equal parts.

My chest feels warm as I close the book and set it beside his bed.

“You see,” Shelley says quietly. “He’s peaceful and content.”

I look at him. He’s amazing. He’s wonderful. I don’t know where he was born, or what his childhood was like. But I feel a deep affection for him as I stand by his bedside. He’s a gentle man. He always was, I’m sure of that.

“I saw him just last night. He was very unwell.”

“I don’t know what you mean, Penny. You’re seeing him right now, as he is.”

I reach out to touch him, but she stops me, grabbing my hand.

“No, don’t. He needs to rest.”

I pull my hand back. “It’s just, I’m sure of it. He was…”

I trail off.

“We’re hoping he’ll be up for tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“The party!”

“You keep talking about a party…”

“It’s not your fault. It’s hard to remember all the details. You love our parties. Every time we have one, you tire yourself out dancing.”

She pulls me in and hugs me. My face is buried in her shoulder for what feels like a long time. She’s hugging me the way my father used to hug me when my feelings were hurt.

“But I’m new here,” I say.

“Oh, Penny. Tonight’s your big night.”

“My big night?”

She releases me from the hug. I see a thin IV line running out from under Hilbert’s blanket into a bag hanging by his bed.

“Tonight’s your first-ever show! It’s your opening.”

I’ve never had a show. I’ve never had an opening, or displayed my work publicly. Not once. Not ever.

“Maybe I’ll show you something,” she says. “A sneak peek.”

“Show me what?”

“I was hoping I wouldn’t have to, not until tonight.”