He takes one last look at the symbols covering the whiteboard. Definitely his writing; there's the squiggle when he writes a four too fast and the pen skids, the one someone once misread as a plus sign and really, the man didn't have to make such a fuss about it because the machine hadn't been that expensive, and --

Yes. It's his. And now it's incomprehensible.

He erases the equations, dimming their light, reducing them to true gibberish.

It doesn't feel like a victory but it's still a relief.

And he's made notes anyway.

He'll figure it out. He's smart.

Still.


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