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One night, I walked to Billy’s house, a journey sparked by boredom. I greeted his mother and hurried up the stairs.

What I saw was interesting to say the least. It looked like some intellectual tornado swept through the room, leaving a flurry of equations and diagrams painting wrinkled papers. A small, malnourished boy sat at a busy computer, typing a frenzy of things I’d never understand.

“Billy?” My lips formed the words with hesitance.

He turned around and gave me an excited, almost scary grin. I gave a courtesy smile in return and stepped into his frightening quantum storm of a room.

“Erica,” he looked at me with wide eyes, “I think I’ve got it.”

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