I don't own Numb3rs or anyone you've ever heard of. Original characters are mine.

Prologue: November 1978

Alan Eppes opened his front door, mildly surprised it had not been opened for him. Usually, when he arrived home, there was a tumble of children to greet him. Don, at eight, claimed to be too old to be racing to the door when Daddy came home, but Lydia always took Charlie's hand and said, "Then we'll go without you." That, of course, made Don try to sprint ahead of her.

Tonight, it was just his daughter, standing there waiting for him, looking strangely serious for a six-year-old. The house was very quiet.

"Hi sweetheart," Alan said. "Where is everyone?"

The little girl pointed. "Charlie is doing Donny's homework."

Alan glanced over at the dining room table, where his wife, Margaret, was sitting with the boys. He handed Lydia his briefcase and she set it solemnly on the floor, then Alan held out his hand and they walked to the dining area.

Margaret had a peculiar look on her face, not quite fear, not quite pride, some sort of mix, along with some sort of shock. A calculator sat in front of her. Charlie was sitting across from her. Don was slumped over his math workbook, as if in disbelief.

Alan sat down and pulled Lydia into his lap. She snuggled against him, playing with his tie.

"Hi," Margaret said. "Hey, Charlie, want to show Daddy?" She tapped numbers into the calculator and said, "Okay, sweets, what's 3,487 times 8,092?"

"Maggie, what --"

"Twenty-eight million and two hunnerd and sixteen thou'and and eight hunnerd and four, Mommy," Charlie said instantly. He sounded bored. "I'm going to be four."

"Yes, you are," Margaret said, and tilted the calculator to show Alan. 28,216,804.

Alan stared at her. "What … how did that happen?" he asked, surprised his voice was so weak.

"He's eight for eight," Don said, trying not to sound impressed. "The numbers are bigger than he is."

Margaret looked at Alan. "He just climbed up next to Donny and started doing his problems. Donny read them to him, kind of as a joke, and he kept getting them right, so I took the calculator …" her voice trailed off.

"They're all right?"

Margaret nodded. "He can't be guessing. I mean, who even taught him what a million is?"

"A billion is bigger than that," Charlie said conversationally.

Alan held out his hand for the calculator. "Random numbers?"

Margaret nodded. "Everything's right up to four digits."

"What's nine times nine?" Don asked suddenly.

"Eighty-one – Mommy, can I go play now?"

With a quick glance toward his mother, Don surreptitiously wrote down the answer.

"In a minute, Charlie."

"What's 1,653 minus 879?" Alan asked, tapping on the calculator.

"Seven hunnerd and seven'y-four," Charlie said. "I like the other ones better, the one that make them grow. That's a million and four hunnerd and fifty two thous'nd and then nine hundred and eighty-seven. A nine, then eight, then seven." He giggled. "They're backward."

Alan leaned toward him. "Charlie? How do you know a million? Who taught you that?"

Charlie shrugged. "It's just in my head. Like my name."

Lydia, uninterested, wriggled away from Alan and wandered over to the piano. Margaret pressed one hand to her mouth, having no idea what to make of her youngest's answer.

"I kept thinking I should call someone – like the pediatrician?" Margaret said. "I don't know. It's a little …" she glanced at Charlie. "S-p-o-o-k-y."

Lydia started playing scales.

"Why is it spooky?" Don asked, ignoring the pointed look his mother gave him. "It's kinda cool." He looked down at his workbook. "Chuck, what's seven times nine?"

"Not Chuck," Charlie said. "Sixty-three."

Don wrote it down. "What about …"

"Donny," Margaret said patiently, "you have to do your own homework."

"Maybe the pediatrician is a good place to start," Alan mused. "Is there a test? Like, a gifted test? Maybe … Lyddie. Lydia. Honey, do you have to do that now?"

"Mrs. Petrie said we have to practice," Lydia said. "Me, and Donny, too."

Alan poked Don. "She's right. Go on. Let Mom and me talk. You can finish your homework after dinner."

Don sighed, and then obediently joined his sister on the bench. "Thanks a lot," he mumbled. "I hate scales. I don't know why Mom makes me take these dumb lessons."

She smiled sweetly at him and put her hands on top of his. "It's okay," she whispered. "I'll help you." She guided his fingers and he grinned at her.

"Mrs. Petrie says there's 88 keys on the keyboard," Lydia told him. "I wonder if Charlie knows that?"

With Don and Lydia at the elementary school and Charlie stacking Lincoln Logs at her feet, Margaret spent the better part of the next morning on the telephone. She called Alan at lunch to report there was something called the California Mentally Gifted Minor Program and that she had set up a meeting for the following week.

That was the beginning of a whirlwind of appointments and tests and tutors, and late nights of long conversations between Alan and Margaret, over papers spread all over the dining room table. Charlie went from specialist to specialist, protesting all the way that he was not sick, he just wanted to play, and did they know there were 2,517 ways he could stack his Lincoln Logs?

With a lack of readily available babysitters, and with the guilt Margaret and Alan felt about the sudden rush of attention to Charlie, Don and Lydia tagged along. Margaret packed them a bag of snacks and toys and when she and Alan disappeared with Charlie into paneled offices, she kissed them and told them not to wander off.

"Donny, you take care of your little sister, okay? Lyddie, be a good girl. We're right in there if you need us. You knock on the door if there's an emergency."

So Don taught Lydia to play fish and crazy eights, and sometimes, in defiance of their parents' instructions, they'd sneak down the hall and look for a candy machine. In nicer weather, they'd wander outside and toss Don's ever-present baseball back and forth. Charlie got their parents all to himself. Don and Lydia got each other. They were all jealous.

In this way, unintentionally, but irrevocably, the pattern was set. By the time he was nine, Charlie could have graphed it.