Charlie Eppes sits at home, alone. Alan is out grocery shopping. And Don… Charlie closes his eyes for a moment, chasing away thoughts of temptation. He glances at the phone.

Would it ring today?

He takes a sip from his cup of milk, and exhales slowly. His mind itches for stimulation, for a challenge.

He knows what problem his mind of logic wishes to work. It involves probability, human nature, and his brother Don.

He catches himself looking at the phone once again, the damned embodiment of his dread. He finds himself almost daring it to ring.

A highly irrational impulse, Charlie thinks to himself. Daring a inorganic object to ring sounds like something Don would do.

Don… I could find out so easily. I wouldn't even need paper. I have sufficient information. I know the number of gunmen, the number of agents involved, the weapons…

Charlie stops himself. He can't do it. He knows he won't be able to face the solution if it turns out to be negative. If the odds are against Don coming home today…

Don's handgun against an assault rifle. Oh, God…

The phone rings, startling Charlie. He jumps, nearly knocking over his milk. His insides grow cold and his stomach begins to twist.

His mind begins to calculate possibilities as he tries to find the courage to pick up the phone. Is it an FBI agent, telling him that he needs to get to the hospital immediately?

A trained killer knows my brother's coming after him… he knows Don is in charge. He's going to go after him…

Suddenly, the numbers begin to flash through Charlie's head, unbidden. He has to know; he cannot wait for the phone call to tell him.

He recalls the last time he saw his brother's face, earlier that morning. Why hadn't he said goodbye to Don? Why didn't he tell him something meaningful instead of blurting out something that his brother wouldn't understand, a principle created by a scientist who knew nothing about assault rifles and bank robbers?

Why hadn't he told Don how much he loved him?

Damn the numbers.

"Hello?" He says into the receiver.

"Charlie? It's Dad." Charlie closes his eyes and begins to laugh.

"Well, that's a nice way to say hello. What's so funny?"

"I'm sorry, Dad. I was just working on a problem."

"What problem?"

"Emotion."

"When did that become a problem?" Alan asks, confused.

"I'll tell you later. What did you call for?"

"I just wanted to know if we needed milk."

"Yeah, we do. I just finished our last gallon."

"Okay. See you tonight. Don said he'd be home at ten, right?" The cold feeling begins to creep into Charlie's stomach again.

"Yeah. Bye, Dad."

"Goodbye, son."

He puts down the phone, and returns to his chair. One number is in his mind, echoing repeatedly.

"Please beat the odds, Donnie," he whispers.