Page 25 of Come Find Me
I think I know what we’re missing. Like you said, it’s the timing. Every three seconds or so—could it be pi? 3.14, etc, etc. That’s some universal constant, right? For something to do with circles? Wouldn’t it make sense, if something was trying to speak to us but they couldn’t justspeakto us, they’d do it with math?
PS—Has it occurred to you that maybe the signal isn’t coming from space? (Could it be something closer? Say, whatever’s in my house?)
PPS—I don’t know what the 37th parallel north is exactly, except I think I’m on it, too. But for clarity’s sake, I’ll say this instead: I’m in Virginia.
I read it over and laugh at my use ofetc, etc.Maybe he’ll think I’m smarter than I am, talking like that. I don’t know why this is funny. The moment feels irrational. Transcendental.
As if I, Nolan Chandler, am finally onto something.
The one thing I wanted to do at the house tonight was to look through Elliot’s notes, to try to understand. To see if I could figure out what was happening on December fourth, while I was gone.
By the time I arrive at the house, though, and hide my bike under the shadow of the front porch, I have a new message on the forum. But I can only check with my phone, since the house no longer has Internet.
I read it on the way to the shed around back, where I’ve left the box of Elliot’s notes, with my bag slung over my shoulder.
There are two things that stick out in the message. That make me freeze. That make the goose bumps rise across my arms.
The first:pi.How did I not see that? I’m practically running to the computer out back to see if he’s right, when I notice the second part of his message:Virginia.
Holy. Crap.
So what if he doesn’t want to think this is coming from space? I’ll deal with that later. There’s no way this radio telescope picks up something from his house. It’s pointingat the sky.Anyway, he’s mapping electromagnetic fields, and I’m documenting radio frequencies. We’re not even looking at the samething.
There’s something more important here. The location. And the pattern itself.Pi.Holy crap, I think he might be right.
I write back immediately, telling him I’m in the process of confirming, and then I tell him the name of my county before I can stop myself and think about whether this is a good idea or not.
For a second, I wonder if he’s some master computer hacker or something, who has hacked into my forum account, has seen where I was sending my message from, and has responded accordingly. If he’s doing this to play me, prey on me. But then I think of his notes about his brother, the video with the blue wall, and no. It’s not possible.
We have something here. Something real.
—
The problem with Elliot’s equipment is that it isn’t exactly the highest-tech equipment in the world. This began as some independent project last summer, before the start of his freshman year of college, and it took on a life of its own after that—he brought at least one friend back from college to see it: I saw them at night after, lying on their backs, looking up at the stars.
It’s an old satellite dish, plus scraps he acquired from various old electronics, and a computer program I think he partly copied and partly made himself, and I’m having difficulty pulling the exact times from the readout. But I think Visitor357 is right, even with my inexact calculations. It’s definitely right around three seconds. And he’s right; that’s close enough that it could be pi.
I kick myself, that I didn’t think of it first.
Elliot told me that whenVoyagerwas sent into space with a message for any extraterrestrial life that might come upon it, our mathematical definitions were included, possibly as a way to communicate.
The signal has to mean something. And yes, it makes sense: this is what you’d send. Math is universal. The ratio of a circle would be the same anywhere. The universe operates by certain laws that are bigger than all of us.
This is one of them.
—
My eyes have gone dry and the numbers on the screen are starting to go fuzzy when I hear footsteps out back—several people’s footsteps. And then, underneath, the familiar mode of speaking among the group of friends I’ve come to know so well since we moved in last year.
Sutton is leading them across the field behind the shed; I don’t even have to look out the window to know it. His voice is the most distinct. Marco and Lydia are following a step or two behind, interjecting periodically. I can’t make out any of the conversation, but their presence here is enough to be suspicious.
They were here on Friday, when the signal started coming through. Lydia and Marco said they know what I’ve been doing at the house, messing with the inside to scare prospective buyers off. It made me suspicious then, and it makes me suspicious now that they’re here again. I need to know what they really do around here.
I quietly step outside the shed, picking out their darker shadows heading to the other end of the field. To Freedom Battleground State Park.
They move in a pack, each anticipating the other’s moves; all my time hanging out with them, and I never felt I fit in, because I didn’t. As Lydia said, she would literally forget I was there. I wasn’t meant to be a member. I was always just a visitor.
I met Marco almost right after we moved into this house, the summer before starting at a new school. And I hitched myself to their group when we started hanging out, never making myself a separate set of close friends. Friends who would call me up, rally around me after an eventual breakup.
