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Hot Seat. I took a deep breath and tried to compose myself enough to tell my story. But, against all of my better judgment and in spite of my desire to seem sane, I dropped my head into my hands and burst into tears. I couldn’t get it together. I hadn’t slept in three days, I was just in a high-speed chase (as high speed as L.A. traffic would allow, but still), someone wanted to kill me, and no one believed me. This went on for a few minutes. Nose running, the whole thing.
    John Bennett got up and came to sit next to me in the other metal chair, hankie in hand. What guy outside of a Jane Austen novel keeps a real linen hankie in his pocket to offer to hysterical women?
    “My mom always insisted. It’s sort of a habit.” Apparently, I’d said that last bit out loud.
    “Thanks.” I took the hankie and wiped my eyes and nose. Here’s a situation that may be as outdated as the hankie itself: What do you do with the snotty hankie once you’re done? You have to give it back, but it’s disgusting. Do you hand him the hankie and risk smearing your boogers on him, or do you shove it in your pocket and promise to return it in a tiny little dry-cleaning bag?
    “It’s okay; just put it on my desk.” Help! My internal dialogue had completely failed me! Why was I saying all this crazy stuff out loud? Deep breath.
    “Listen, do you want to tell me why you broke into our parking garage? How old are you? Are you in high school?”
    I felt about twelve. “I’m a senior at Samohi. I’m seventeen, almost eighteen. In June.” Usually when people are telling you they are almost something, it’s more like “I’m almost six and a half.”
    “So you’re seventeen. Is this all about the secret flashing terror codes?” Mocking me again. Good, because I think more clearly when I’m pissed.
    “Yes.” I just wanted to get up and leave. But I didn’t know who was going to be waiting for me when I got back to my car. Plus, I think I might have been under arrest or something. “And if you want me to explain why the codes were such an obvious message about the attack on JFK, I can do that.”
    “I’m listening.” He leaned back in the metal chair and folded his arms in a this-ought-to-be-good sort of way.
    I was hoping he’d just take my word for it. I wasn’t really in my comfort zone, and I couldn’t remember the last time I’d talked about numbers with anyone but my dad. Talking about them with normal people always ended up being a little isolating. It’s as if they hear me out and then slowly back away, like I was holding a gun instead of a pencil. I just wasn’t in the mood to have that experience with this guy who already thought I was a freak.
    “There are a whole lot of people out there waiting to regale me with conspiracies. And you are potentially in a whole lot of trouble. So I’d take the chance to explain it, if you can.”
    If I can? That got me going. “All right. The network broadcast three sets of numbers over three Tuesday nights. They were 55431, then 23185, then 3211911, making the number sequence all together 55431231853211911.” I looked up at him to see how glazed over he was. He was still listening, dark eyes focused and eyebrows furrowed a bit.
    “How do you even remember all those numbers?”
    “I have a thing for math. Want me to write this down?” He slid me a sheet of paper and handed me a pen from his jacket pocket. It was inscribed PRINCETON ALUMNI . Not bad. I started writing the numbers by memory. “Got it?”
    “I guess. So what?”
    “So let’s separate out the last three numbers, 911. And then let’s reverse the remaining first fourteen numbers: 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21, 34, 55. Anything?”
    “Is this the Liberace thing? I wasn’t really . . .”
    “ . . . paying attention? I could tell. It’s Fibonacci. In a Fibonacci sequence, each number is the sum of the two numbers before it: 1 + 1 is 2, 1 + 2 is 3, 2 + 3 is 5. So it’s a reverse Fibonacci sequence, followed