Marya would die without the Pythagorean Theorem.

It’s her security blanket. A-squared-plus-b-squared-equals-c-squared. She whispers it to herself at night.

Because at only age eight, she’s witnessed perfection.

Her parents proffer patient smiles as she tries to explain the beauty of something that is true, that was true two thousand years ago, that will always be true. They don’t understand it at all, so for a while she would reiterate the genius of right triangles to them everywhere: on the way to school, at dinner, in the waiting rooms of child psychologists.

Sometimes she can lie on her bed for hours whispering this talk to herself. She ignores her parents’ muffled bickering and focuses instead on her hero-worship of Pythagoras. She Googled him once but got in trouble for some silly reason, like maybe that it was a Thursday at one in the morning. Marya remembers her dad’s irritated face with his half-shaved beard all scrunched up saying why the hell are you awake. She thinks about it every time she does something bad.

She wishes Pythagoras could adopt her because unlike her parents and psychotherapist who say she’s normal with uncomfortable expressions on, math always tells the truth.

Always.

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