Somewhere in the world, hiding amongst the myriad population archetypes pervasive in every society, is the mythical 'morning person.' The type of person who loves leaving their slumber in the early hours of the day. The type of person that hops out of their comfortable, secure, warm bed without a hint of grogginess or reservation. The type of person for whom energy is implicitly available from the very moment their consciousness wakes, despite the lack of breakfast or coffee or any sort of motivation.

By every definition of the concept, Alan was not that person. He was unhappy. He was sleepy. His eyelids were heavy. And, currently, he was standing in fragile equilibrium between his cot and the supply closet door, pulled in one direction by the promise of a few more minutes of blissful rest and in the other direction by his commitment to making his morning appointment. Yesterday, he had agreed to regular eight o'clock meetings with Pearl for a good two hours of confusing stuff before work. A decision he was now beginning to regret.

How many eight o'clock lectures have I missed in my undergraduate and graduate years? Have I learned nothing?

Alan took a half-step towards his cot, swaying to the warmth and comfort that it promised.

But I already agreed, I can't back out now. Besides, there are worst things to spend my mornings on. Like sleeping forever.

Alan steeled himself and took a full step towards the door, shaking away his grogginess with limited success.

And if I don't go, I'll never learn all that confusing stuff! That would be absolutely unacceptable.

Resolve growing, Alan took another step towards the door, standing taller and opening his eyes to their fullest.

I am leaving this room and starting my day. No matter how much better sleeping in would definitely be.

Finally, Alan grit his teeth and burst through the supply closet door, escaping the pull of his comfortable, wonderful, lumpy cot. "I'm awake!" he declared to the morning air, reveling in his victory over his own not-morning-person attitude. A victory that was short-lived. In the main office, rummaging for something underneath the counter, was Greg. And, much to Alan's dismay, Greg was now staring at him. Alan could do nothing but stare back.

Hello, Greg. The outburst you just witnessed was an exemplar for how I don't want you to remember me. Please disregard it.

"Oh. Uh... cool. I'm awake too, so... g'mornin'! I guess you're a mornin' person? That's good! Means I can count on you to do mornin' stuff."

Please don't.

"Y-yes, I am very... very count-on-able. Especially in the mornings."

W-what are you doing, me? You don't need to impress him! You're working at a car-wash, not a high-risk financial institution or some prestigious European research collaborative.

"Great! That's great. Say, you seen a blue folder 'round here? It's Steven's first day at school and I gotta be ready to meet all his teachers."

Summoning more attentiveness than his sleep-addled eyes could manage moments ago, Alan took another look at his employer. Greg was, in fact, not wearing his usual attire. Instead, his top half was adorned with a pine green turtleneck and a faded, tawny suit jacket, giving off an illusion of formality that felt disharmonious with Alan's image of Greg. The illusion was broken almost immediately, however, by his cut-off slacks and sandals, which still prominently displayed the drastic difference in tone between his sunburned feet and his pale legs.

I suppose this is what passes for formal in Greg's wardrobe, Alan concluded. Scanning the room idly, his eye caught on a small corner of blue, jutting out between two sizable coils of hose.

How does he go about organizing his life such that something that important ends up between two big rubber hoses?

Yanking the folder from its hiding place, Alan presented it to the grateful car-wash owner.

"Aw hey, it's the thing! Thanks, man."

Greg grabbed the folder, allowing Alan a glimpse of the older man's hands. His fingers were rough, wrinkled from constant use and calloused at the tips. Each digit carried a tell-tale groove; a small trough the size and shape of a guitar string.

"Hey Greg. Pearl told me you used to be a musician?" Alan mused aloud. Greg scoffed, fumbling the folder and making a scene of catching it before it hit the ground.

"Used to be?! What time is it, kid?"

Alan glanced over at the wall clock behind him. Why doesn't he just look?

"Seven-thirty."

"Well, that's more than enough time ta rock your ears off!" Greg declared, tossing the folder onto the same pile of hoses Alan had dug it out of. "With, ah- with acoustic instrumentation. Don't wanna use an amp this early in the morning. Neighbors might complain again."

Greg reached under the counter and pulled out an old guitar. It was worn; anyone could tell at first glance. The wood was faded and white along the edges, echoing where an arm had rested and moved and strummed countless times. Small scratches adorned the fret board in a dozen some-odd places, placed by errant picks or careless packing or whatever other unusual motions Greg had made with the instrument over its lifetime. But the guitar also looked well taken care of. The nylon strings were recently strung, and there was a fresh polish on the body that seemed to defy the uneven coloration of the wood beneath.

Does he just... keep that back there at all times?

"Oh, this old thing?" Greg said, addressing the question written on Alan's face. "I keep it here in case a customer needs an impromptu jam sesh'. Ya know?"

I... I don't know, Greg. I thought this was just a car-wash, not an impromptu jam dispensary.

"Anyway, get ready! This is a song I used to be sorta embarrassed about, but it's one-a Steven's favorites, so I'm learnin' to totally own it again!"

Greg took a solid stance; feet spaced evenly, guitar hanging low, and neck aligned straight with his back. He closed his eyes, took in a long, deep breath, and exhaled, just as long and just as deep. Alan raised his brow in confusion and anticipation.

Is he meditating?

The scene struck Alan as surreal, as well as more than a bit amusing. Standing in front of him was a balding, long-haired, middle-aged man. One who was sporting half of a formal outfit and half of an extremely visible tan-line. And now, he was wielding a guitar in the middle of a car-wash with his eyes closed, breathing pensively. If Alan weren't so perplexed and sleepy, he might have chuckled. He may even have giggled. But the bemused sentiment didn't survive long.

Greg's eyes snapped open, and the sheepish man standing before Alan just a moment before was swept away. The musician's entire face animated, breaking out into a large, bold smile. His teeth flashed as prominently as his eager eyes, and his brows were pulled down to a confident angle. As he raised his strumming arm, Alan knew why Greg had steadied himself. His arm was high, his fingers were in position on the fret board, and the his instrument looked eager to produce a noise- any noise. And when Greg brought his arm down, his entire body shifted with it; a practiced absorption of the sudden change in momentum. A well-rehearsed twist to keep the guitar's body in-plane with the trajectory of his arm. Finally, his hand fell across the strings, and the instrument gratefully relinquished a single, loud, ringing chord.

He's keying in the song, I guess? I suppose it would've been much more impressive on an electric guitar.

Looking around with a hint of surprise, like he was expecting an enormous din to emerge from more than just his guitar's sound hole, Greg quickly re-composed himself and moved on to the intro. Three quick notes in succession, ending in a trill whose oscillations were matched by Greg's frantic head-shaking. He stopped the sound suddenly with a muffling hand and opened his mouth to release the first verse.

I know I'm not that tall

I know I'm not that smart

But let me drive my van into your heart

Let me drive my van into your heart

Alan leaned forward. The strumming pattern was simple, but catching. The chords- a set of transitions that the guitarist flew between flawlessly. And Greg's strong baritone had just a hint of roughness underlying every vocal dip and prolonged tone. But it all added to the sincerity of the song. And it drew Alan in.

I know I'm not that rich

I'm trying to get my start

So let me drive my van into your heart

Let me drive my van into your heart

Alan didn't even have time to think of some glib comment to himself or analyze the contents of the lyrics. The words were flowing, gruff and earnest. The notes, straightforward and cheerfully plucked from each string. All Alan had time to do was experience Greg's performance, note by note. A practice that grew more hectic as they entered the bridge. It looked as though Greg wanted to start another series of trills, but, recalling with an 'oh yeah!' face that he was holding an acoustic guitar, the musician settled for complicating his strumming pattern. He sped up just a hair, augmenting the bouncing, familiar rhythm with his own style and flavor. A tastefully plucked note here, a quick triplet there, and more than one impromptu riff that made him close his eyes and smile even wider.

And if we look out of place

Well, baby, that's okay

I'll drive us into outer space

Where we can't hear what people say

Greg let the last chord of the bridge hang in the air, leaning back and growing meditative again. Alan leaned forward further, unsteady in the song's absence. But he knew the tune hadn't left; it was waiting. Steadily and excitedly watching for Greg's permission to continue. Opening his eyes with the same rush of energy and confidence he had mustered in the beginning, Greg fulfilled the promise he made when he let that chord hang. He began the progression again, and the song fell back into place.

I know I don't have a plan

I'm working on that part

At least I've got a van

So let me drive my van into your heart

Greg entered his out-tro with gusto, reveling in each loud strum and allowing every word to belt out of his chest without reserve.

Let me drive my van into your heart!

He stomped his foot,-

Let me drive my van into your heart

- rocked back and forth,-

Let me drive my van into your heart!

- and smiled wide as day.

Let me drive my van into your heart

Greg once more let his chord hang in the musically charged air of the main office. This time, Alan could feel it depart, untethered by any person or musical obligation. It was done, it was loud, and it was proud to leave on such good terms. Greg held his finishing strum pose until the last overtones rang out of both of their ears. Then, the song was over. The musician placed his guitar on the counter with a satisfied breath, and, once more, he was Greg. Car-wash Greg. Balding-with-long-hair Greg. The Greg who told Alan his car had a good shine and gave him a cot in a supply closet.

The same Greg who was- no, who is a musician. The same Greg who knows how to excite a cavalcade of notes from a guitar. The same Greg who's comfortable rocking out words from a cradle of rugged tonality.

And the same Greg who was now scratching the back of his head, waiting for a response.

"So... didja-"

"Greg, that was... that was great!" Alan's face lit up, the energy of Greg's performance still swirling about in his head. "That was your song? You wrote it yourself and everything?"

"Sure did!" Greg laughed, his abashed head-scratching now turned into proud head-rubbing. "Used to be in one-a my sets, even got it on record! So don't you go lettin' Pearl tell ya I 'used to' be a musician."

Alan nodded. The only appropriate response to such a valid request.

"But, wow," Greg continued, looking over at the instrument on the counter, "that sounds way different without an electric."

"An...? Oh, you mean an electric guitar?"

Greg scratched the back of his head again. "Yeah. Thought everyone knew-... yeah. You play, kid?"

"Oh, no, I never had a knack for all that finger work" Alan said, waving his hands at the guitar like it would form an imaginary barrier against misrepresented skill impressions. "I used to sing, but..."

"Used to?" Greg sounded surprised. A sentiment which showed in his raised brows and widened eyes. "How long?"

How long? I guess I've never really counted. Perhaps a terminal time estimate will be sufficient.

"I stopped in my second year of graduate studies."

"And? C'mon kid, I wanna know how long you did it, not when ya stopped."

It was not sufficient.

"Since... forever. Well, not, you know, forever forever. Given that I wasn't even born until- 'til, you know, after, uh... after forever started."

"Huh?"

It was still not sufficient.

"Since elementary school."

"Oh! Why didn'tcha say so instead of talkin' about forever stuff and graduate junk and stuff? You sing in a band, man?" Greg did a quick, fairly convincing air-guitar, suggesting what manner of band he was talking about.

"Oh, no. Nothing so unstructured. Mostly school and recreational choir."

And shower-taking free-style. And walking-to-class mp3-player-conducted humming. And dish-washing radio-accompanied light harmonizing backup vocals.

"One of those kids, huh? That's cool, man- I never had a thing for all that classical business." Greg stuck his tongue out briefly, eliciting a small chuckle from Alan.

Does it taste bad or something? We're talking about music!

"Well, when I was a singer, I quite did have a 'thing' for 'classical business.'"

"When you were a singer? C'mon, somethin' you liked for that long?" Greg took on that look again. A warm ember of its former self, growing cold since his performance ended. But still glowing. An eager wrinkle in the corners of his eyes; a small, confident grin; a slight angling of the brows. And, when Greg spoke, his words picked up on that modest spark of emotion as naturally as any of the lyrics of his song. "That's not somethin' you lose."

Alan stared for a moment.

Not something you lose, huh?

Greg plucked his allegedly important folder from its nest of hoses, tucking it safely under one arm. "Well, I oughtta head out. Don't want Steven to be late on his first day. Then I'd look totally irresponsible. Instead of, ya know, just... mostly irresponsible."

"Of course. I had better leave as well; I said I would meet Pearl and-"

"Oh, you headin' to the beach? Why don't I give ya a lift?"

Greg held the door to the main office open, gesturing to the colorfully painted tour-van-turned-home. Alan shivered slightly as a waft of morning air passed him by.

"Sure. Sure! Yes, I would appreciate the ride; thank you. Let me just grab-"

Alan interrupted himself by walking face-first into the closet door, issuing a small yelp as it happened. Watching the door swing open from the reactive force of his face slamming into it- a force which his nose was still feeling- Alan reached into the closet and snatched his jacket before the door could further injure him. The clumsy physicist fast-walked outside, passing by a very befuddled Greg.

"So why you meetin' Pearl?" Greg asked, jogging a little to catch up to Alan's flustered scurry. "Is it a car-wash thing? 'Cuz that stuff she did the last time, well..." Greg mouthed a very wide "wow," pointing to the entire car-wash with a sweeping gesture.

"No, it's not- well, it's not strictly car-wash related. It's not entirely unfeasible that the topic would appear in conversation, bu-... yeah. Not a, um, car-wash thing." Alan slipped the jacket on, rolling his shoulders to loosen some of the bunched up fabric.

"Oh." Greg hopped into the driver's seat of his van; a practiced motion that he had streamlined into a single, combined pull-door-open-and-hop-in-to-driving-position movement. Alan, much less used to climbing into Greg's van, entered his seat with a careful, calculated, three-step maneuver. "So what's Pearl got ya doin'? Earnin' a little on the side?"

"No, there's no payment or employment."

Though I guess she is paying me in weird knowledge.

Greg put the van in gear, rolling out of the car-wash and driving along the boardwalk. Alan tried to elaborate. "I'm actually, um..."

Maybe I should word this better?

"Well, I've sort of-"

No, that's a terrible way to say it.

"I'm-"

Oh, I'll just take the direct route.

"I'm her apprentice."

Greg pressed down on the gas in surprise, jolting both of them backwards with a combined "woah!"

"Y-you're her what?!"

Her apprentice. Hah! Ah... no, I shouldn't exacerbate his mood with impudence.

"Is there an issue?"

"No, not- not really. I just-... well, I guess it's up ta you how you spend your free time and all." Greg brought his van back down to a comfortable cruising speed. "Just be careful, alright? Can't be losin' my best employee."

Your only employee.

The van started drifting to the side of the road, making Alan glance over with some modicum of concern. Then, the entire vehicle lurched to the right, mounting the boardwalk and continuing on to the sandy beach beyond. Alan looked over to Greg, his modicum of concern having grown into a full-fledged worry. Greg's calm demeanor, however, suggested that veering off the road was an intended course of action.

Is... is this allowed? Or even, you know, wise?

As they traveled the beach without incident, it became clear to Alan that Greg had done this before. Many times before. He always turned his wheel to give slightly when the sand started to slip, and made sure to keep away from the slick, packed ground closer to the water.

Something of an expert beach van-driver, huh? You are an interesting person, Greg.

The van pulled up to the beach house just as Steven was running out. Or, perhaps, Steven was running out because the van had pulled up to the beach house. Either way, the excited boy was bounding his way down the wooden stairway, making short work of them and bouncing happily down the sandy incline that led up to the beach house. Greg threw the van in park and jumped out, getting down and one knee and holding his arms wide open.

"Steven!"

"Da~d!"

Greg's son tumbled straight into him, moving the steady man backwards a step. In return, Greg's arms clamped shut, preventing Steven from doing much but entertaining his father's hug.

"Alright, dad, I give!" Steven relented laughingly, falling onto his back when Greg released him.

"You got everythin' you need, buddy?"

"Yup!" Steven declared, popping onto his feet and unslinging his backpack. Steven stifled a chortle.

Is that the cheeseburger again?

To Alan, there was something amusing about watching Greg's son brandish a cheeseburger the size of his body. Something that Steven, apparently, did not notice. Reaching down into a giant slice of cheese like it was a completely normal thing to do, Steven pulled out an armful of materials that Alan could only describe as school-esque.

"Steven, I just finished arranging those in your cheeseburger in such a manner as to prevent creasing on any of your notebooks' edges!" The trio on the beach turned their heads to find all three of Steven's not-aunts marching down from the beach house; Garnet implicitly at the head of their physical formation, but Pearl leading the charge with frantic, chastising arm gestures.

"Aw, I was just showin' dad all this neat-o school stuff we put together."

Alan took a closer look at Steven's 'neat-o school stuff.' It was comprised of several conventional school items; a binder, several notebooks, a neatly organized pencil case. But a couple of the items were... odd. Before Alan could inquire, Greg piped up with the questions that were surely on both of their minds.

"What's with the jar of glue?"

"Oh, that? I usually just eat it," Amethyst said, sticking her hand in her mouth demonstratively and making a series of mock consumption noises. Alan watched Pearl edge slightly away from her purple friend, eyes narrowing in disagreement. "But I guess you can use it ta stick stuff together or somethin'? I dunno, it felt school-ee."

"It's totally school-ee!" Steven agreed, dropping the jar unceremoniously into his cheeseburger. "Thanks, Amethyst."

"No prob, lil' man," she accepted with a smile, ruffling Steven's curly hair.

"Alright, just don't go actually eatin' that stuff, son. Heard it's bad for ya." Greg stuck a hand into Steven's pile of school supplies and pulled out a ruler. Which was tied to a protractor. Which was tied to a thermometer. Which was threaded through a small balance scale. Holding the composite instrument up with a very confused look, Greg shook it accusingly at Amethyst.

"Tha' one's mine," Garnet interjected with a raised hand. "I wanted Steven to have every measure of success."

Alan, standing completely still, almost tripped over himself. No. There's no way she did this exclusively for the joke.

Steven chuckled, taking the tool from his father and lowering it, carefully, into the lettuce pocket. "Nice one, Garnet." The tall woman nodded with a satisfied smirk.

S-she did?!

Greg and Steven started placing his armful of supplies back into the cheeseburger, being as careful as they could to address Pearl's notebook creasing concerns. The girl in question was watching them with something of an impatient demeanor. Her arms were crossed, her heel was tapping repeatedly on the increasingly disturbed sand beneath her, and her brow was lowered. After it became clear that whatever she was expecting was not going to occur without direct intervention, Pearl cleared her throat.

"Aren't you going to ask about my contribution?"

Steven and Greg looked back into the pile. Both father and son pulled notebooks out, holding them up in offering. Pearl non-verbally rejected their attempt, crossing her arms tighter and raising an eyebrow, to which both guilty parties gave sheepish grins.

They really are alike, Alan mused, all but measuring the similar dimensions of both Universes' smiles. The physicist glanced into the pile and spotted a pencil holder full of neatly assorted stationary. Pencils and pens were tucked into grooved pen-and-pencil sized ridges, separated by small, ordered compartments from the erasers and paper clips and crayons efficiently occupying the rest of the plastic rectangle. Plucking the item out of Steven's arms, Alan presented it on an open palm to the rest of the morning assembly, who all glanced at Pearl. A smile and a small nod gave confirmation.

"Sorry, Pearl. It's just so... normal," Steven said, scratching the back of his head.

"Yeah, it's like, one of the only things here that makes sense," Greg agreed.

"Oh," Pearl exclaimed, looking mildly surprised. "Well, in that case... thank you for not noticing?"

"You got it, Pearl!" Steven grinned, grabbing the pencil case and placing it, by itself, in the cheeseburger's front bun.

"Now, are you sure you're ready for school, Steven?" Pearl gave Steven a hand re-placing his school supplies, introducing a measure of organization that neither Steven nor Greg would even have considered for a grade-schooler's backpack.

"Wa-hell, I do have cheeseburger backpack. And really, isn't that all anyone ever needs?"

"No. There is quite more that you could need," Pearl rebuked, "and I'm not just talking about the dimensions of your food-shaped backpack."

The concerned caretaker knelt and took Steven by the shoulders. "Are you sure you're mentally prepared for your first day? As I understand it, human schools are amalgams of complex, irrational social constructs and repetitive, tedious course-work."

"O-oh. Well, when you say it like that, I-"

"Yeah, and I heard you can get inta' fights at school!" Amethyst added eagerly, making claws with her fingers.

"Fights?! I- I don't wanna fight anyone-"

"Pea'l. Amethyst." Garnet stepped behind Steven, placing a firm hand atop his head and squishing his hair down. Steven giggled slightly at the gesture. "He'll be fine. Righ', Steven?"

"Right! Pearl, I'll be fine." Steven struck a brave pose, placing his hands on his hips and trying to make a serious face. The result was a very dimpled version of his normal face, in the middle of which were two eyes which were too used to laughing to ever look serious. Pearl and Amethyst glanced at each other sideways, sharing a small snort of laughter.

"Of course. Now go, go!" Pearl gave Steven a quick hug before spinning him around and patting him towards Greg's van. "School starts at eight-thirty, and if you are not there precisely when it begins then it will set a negative precedent for future mornings."

Pearl glowered at Greg, tapping an invisible watch on her wrist in warning. Dropping a single bead of nervous sweat, Greg waved away her concerns with both hands, hopping into his van as Steven did.

"Hey dad, can you really get into fights at school?"

"Only if you go lookin' for one, pal. And somethin' tells me you won't go lookin' for one." Greg pulled away from the beach house, driving down the shore as quickly as he could safely manage. Through the passenger side window, Alan caught one last glimpse of Steven. The boy was nodding his head solemnly, bracing himself for a day that might either be awfully great or greatly awful. But he couldn't hide the excited grin that was working its way to the corners of his mouth.

"He'll be fine, right?"

Alan glanced back at the trio of Steven's guardians. They were standing in a straight line, each of them watching the van drive away and wearing the same expression of unsure expectations. Pearl, who had spoken, was poking Garnet in the shoulder, trying to elicit some sort of response. The tall woman nodded once before turning back towards the beach house.

"You nee' to have more faith in Steven."

"Yeah, Pearl. Relax! He'll be totally fine. Besides, if he does get in a fight, he can just use the glue."

Pearl swiveled to admonish her purple friend, but Amethyst was already sauntering uphill after Garnet. Pearl settled for an exasperated sigh, shaking her head to herself. It wasn't until the van disappeared behind the cliff face that Alan was finally addressed.

"Steven will be fine, right?"

Alan coughed nervously to himself. How should I know? Oh, but she looks sort of bothered about it.

"I'm sure he will. I mean, I went through almost two decades of school and I turned out-"

If I say fine I will literally be such a liar.

"-and I turned out alright."

Pearl gave him a blank look.

"Two... decades?"

Uh. Is... is that a good request for confirmation or a bad request for confirmation?

"Yes."

"And all you've learned up 'till now is-"

Pearl whipped her head back to where she last saw the van, eyes meeting nothing but sand and a rocky cliff face. "Hm. Perhaps school was not the best use of his time after all. Oh well, we shall see what outcome this course of action has wrought in due time. For now, shall we continue where we left off?"

Alan nodded tiredly and made his way over to the chalkboard, plopping down onto the sand. What else would Steven be using his time on?

Pearl sat opposite him, sitting down and folding her legs in a graceful, fluid motion. "Now, do you remember what last we discussed?"

Alan reached into his jacket, fishing out a notebook and pen from one of the large, practical pockets lining the inside. Flipping to his last page of notes, he managed to decipher them through groggy morning vision. "Single-particle-to-single-particle transdimensional interaction?"

"That's right!" Pearl drew two neat circles on the board, labeling one P1 and the other P2.

Oh no, not P-one and P-two again. These guys are the worst.

"Now, as per the model we defined yesterday, these two are elementary particles residing in separate, distinct dimensions, which we called D-one and D-two." Pearl drew a squiggly line between the two particles, labeling each side of the dimensional divide accordingly. "Yesterday I defined the interaction between P-one and P-two in rather casual terms. I hope the lack of detail didn't make it too confusing?"

Sure. The lack of detail. That's probably why.

"It may have contributed to my puzzlement."

"Well then, good news! Today, we get our first taste of something calculable." Pearl scrawled the variables T1 and T2 on the board, finishing each one with a happy little flourish. "The physical property that corresponds to the capacity for a particle to take part in transdimensional interaction is called transience."

"Isn't that already, you know... a word?"

"Oh, well, of course it is. But so were derivative, integral, and charge before they were assigned formal definitions in mathematics and physics." Pearl flashed a self-satisfied smile, to which Alan could only nod in agreement.

Well... can't really be upset when she's right. Can I? I suppose I can. But I'm not.

"Call T-one and T-two the transience of particle one and particle two, respectively. Transience is actually a complex, non-linear combination of several variables, but for now we shall treat it as a single, real number." Alan hurriedly copied Pearl's chalkboard in pencil form in his notebook, surrounding the new quantities with a couple of messy notes.

This is... this might be something I can latch on to. Assuming I can actually understand it.

"Additionally, in this simplification, we shall consider only the effect from one dimension to one other dimension. And that both dimensions have rules for fundamental interaction which are functionally equivalent."

"Meaning...?"

"Meaning if I, say, toss an egg in D-one, it shall act exactly as it would have had I tossed the egg in D-two under the same conditions."

Eggs again? No Pearl, nooo...

"Alright. Now, if the transience of P-one is a positive, non-zero value, then, for P-one to exert a transdimensional effect on P-two, the transience of P-two must also be a positive, non-zero value."

"So, negative transience suggests some sort of resistance to transdimensional interaction?"

"Not necessarily," Pearl corrected, tapping the board with her chalk. "Rather, a particle with negative transience requires another particle with negative transience for the two to exhibit any transdimensional effect on each other." Alan dutifully jot down several points from Pearl's explanation. Noticing that Pearl was waiting for him to finish, he wrapped up his scribbling with a long, slow, affirmative nod. One that, to Pearl's slight dismay, steadily transformed into a confused head shake.

"How does transience model the phenomenon that- well, there are nearly infinite particles in each dimension. How do two particles 'know' to affect each other?"

It... does model that," Pearl began slowly. "It's one of the non-linear combinations I mentioned earlier, which we'll get to. Later. Perhaps much later. For now, just assume that P-one and P-two do affect each other and only each other."

"So what does this effect actually do? Move the particles around or normalize their spin or-"

"That is also modeled in one of the non-linear combinations," Pearl interrupted, scribbling a bit underneath T1 in an attempt to make it look more complex. "Not that it terribly matters, since when we're treating transience as nothing more than a real number, but... sure. Let's say that this particular transdimensional interaction operates on, um..."

A gust blew in from the ocean, kicking up a small cloud of sand that rolled, low to the ground, between Pearl and her apprentice. Alan watched Pearl stare, intently, at a single grain of sand, following its motion with the precision and exactness of a thinking mind.

"On motion! Yes, on the displacement, velocity, and acceleration of each particle. This is a very demonstrable instance of transdimensional effect." With no small amount of enthusiasm, Pearl pulled out a pair of plastic spheres, placing them on the sand in front of her and tracing a squiggly line between them with one finger. "Now then, let's move on to the most fun part. Example calculations!"

Well, I do like calculations. It's a lot more actionable that flailing around here all day not understanding anything. Alan nodded his head just as enthusiastically, priming his pencil and notebook for what was sure to be a generous expenditure of graphite.

"It's okay, we'll just go over this one more time."

Alan held his head in one hand, gawking at Pearl's claim. It's okay? All I've done this entire long morning is- is, well... fail!

Alan took a forlorn look at the board. His familiar particles, P1 and P2, were still there. But they were bastions of sense amidst a maelstrom of chalky complexity. Alan had stopped trying to copy the endless tendrils of vector arrows emerging from each particle and going in every direction imaginable, including into and out of the board. Nor was he jotting down the dictionary of new terms and variables that Pearl had thought necessary to define in the now-cramped corners of the board. Nor was he drawing every graph, diagram, and confusing collection of shapes that allegedly held meaning. Instead, he was staring blankly at P1 and P2, trying to recapture the fleeting sense of understanding and enthusiasm he had felt when the morning began.

"Say P-one is moving towards me." Pearl grabbed one of the plastic spheres, pulling it towards her and forming a small groove in the sand. "Now, given the dimensional transference matrix on the board, in which direction will P-two move?"

Alan's eyes darted back and forth across the board. Seeing his confusion, Pearl tapped her chalk underneath a large matrix dominating the better part of half of the board. The physicist squinted at the mathematical structure, as though straining his eyes would clarify the myriad of strange symbols and quantities.

In times like these, an educated guess is my best chance. How many directions could there be? Four? Eight? That's a one-in-eighth chance of getting this right.

"Towards me and to the right?"

"Y-eah..." Pearl bit her bottom lip, looking off into the clear, blue sky for motivation to continue. "Except that's... not what it would do, and you're wrong. It would actually swoop gradually towards me, and to the right, at a forty-five degree angle. Then curve upwards." Pearl grabbed the other plastic sphere and pulled it through her prescribed trajectory, holding it over her head at its terminal position. "Do you understand?"

It was a question that made Alan's heart sink. Not because she had to ask, but because the answer was a very definite no.

"Is there... something that I can clarify?" Pearl looked worried. Whether for the futility of their efforts or for the dismay written on her apprentice's face, Alan didn't know.

"No, I think-"

What do I think? That if I stare at it long enough an understanding will spontaneously appear?

"-I think I just need some time with it. The math and all that."

"Oh. Okay. Well then, your shift starts at ten and it is nine fifty-five, so... I shall see you tomorrow?"

"Yeah." Alan stood and brushed the sand off his jacket, nodding slowly. "Yeah, I-... yeah. Tomorrow."

Alan departed with a defeated shuffle, which picked up into a concerned trot when he remembered the time. He looked back just once, overtaken by lingering curiosity.

Just what does she think of me now?

Pearl was leaving with her own pensive step, brow lowered and sporting a vacant thinking face. And it answered his question succinctly.

She doesn't know what to think.

Alan moved his arms. Plain. Mechanical.

Small clockwise. Large counterclockwise. Small clockwise. Shift position.

As hesitant as Alan was to admit it, washing cars was a good job. Not a good good job; certainly he wouldn't be writing home about his prestigious position as the only employee at a local car-wash in a small town- not counting its owner. And it's not like it was good for the world, either. Not bad for the world, but nothing a passerby would laud as a selfless, essential task were they to pass by Alan at work. But it was good for him. Calming. Like a soothing balm of simplicity; a meditatively direct task that he knew he could perform.

And, unlike Pearl's lessons, washing cars isn't an enormous mental labor.

Still, as much as Alan enjoyed operating on conscious autopilot, his previous worries nagged at him. It showed in his belabored motions. It showed in his downcast eyes. And it showed to Greg, who pulled into the car-wash at noon to the sight of his only employee washing a car door as glumly as one could wash a car door. The genial man gave Alan a wave as his van coasted past him to its usual spot. When that was ignored, Greg hopped out and waved from the other side of the car Alan was washing. And when that was ignored, he waved his hands right in front of Alan's face, causing his employee to toss his sponge into the air in surprise. The cleaning implement soared through the air, ending its parabolic arc with a clean 'plop!' in a nearby bucket. Alan and Greg nodded their heads at the spectacle.

"Nice." Greg said, congratulating both Alan and the universe for arranging such an unlikely sponge throw. "But, uh, kid? Somethin' wrong? You're lookin' downer than a quilt full-a duck feathers."

Alan couldn't stop the snort of laughter that constituted his reflexive reaction to Greg's joke. Downer than a quilt full of- pfft! What's that supposed to even mean?

Greg flashed a smile, glad that he had chipped a small way through. "Seriously though, you've washed that door at least twice as much as it needs."

"Naw, he's doin' a fine job, Mr. U!"

Alan glanced up at the contributing voice. One of the Pizza girls- though he couldn't name which one- was relaxing in the driver's seat with her legs on the dashboard, sunglasses down and arms cradling her head. Looking with more than a modicum of attention at the door he had scrubbed to a shine, Alan noticed that he was, in fact, washing the Fish Stew Pizza delivery car.

"Uh, Jenny," Greg began, tapping the side of the car with one finger, "shouldn't you be makin' deliveries?"

"Well, I guess I should. But he just kept washin' the car, and I figured, ya know, as long as he kept doin' it I shouldn't interrupt him."

Greg coughed to himself, unwilling, and unsure of how, to continue his line of questioning. Finally, Jenny sighed, taking her feet off the dash. "Fine, you win Mr. U. I already paid inside so you don't hafta worry 'bout that. Thanks for the wash, um..."

"Alan," Greg answered for his preoccupied employee, who was currently tilting his head and staring at the door of the car in puzzlement.

Has this fish-pizza-intersect graphic always been here?

"Yeah, thanks for the wash, Alan!" Jenny started the car, which finally snapped Alan out of his car door fixation and prompted him to step back. He waved half-heartedly at his customer, then turned back towards Greg.

"Have you ever been unable to do something you thought you knew well? Something you've done for so long that you can't imagine not being able to do it? Wait, 'unable' is the wrong word. It's more... insufficiently performing, I suppose. At something that, um... yeah."

"You askin' if I ever failed? Well, of course I have! It's not like every song's a show-stopper. Or even, you know, a mild show interrupter. But that doesn't stop you, ya know? If it's somethin' you know you wanna do and you do it all the time, then you do the thing, it goes well or it doesn't, and the next day you keep doin' the thing." Greg placed his hands on his hips and grinned with certainty. "'cuz sometimes it is a show stopper!"

It goes well or it doesn't? I suppose that does accurately describe the range of possible outcome, but-

"Oh, I got ya figured," Greg said, snapping in realization. "This is a singin' thing, isn't it?"

A singing-? Oh. Oh, no, it's not a-

"Yeah, it's totally a singin' thing!" Greg said enthusiastically. "C'mon, I'll show ya."

"Show me what, mist- um, Greg?"

Greg snatched a guitar out of his van, turning to Alan with an expression that spoke nothing but confidence. "Show you that you still got it, of course!" Greg took a familiar stance; feet spaced evenly, guitar hanging low, and neck aligned straight with his back. Seeing Greg get ready, Alan instinctively initiated his own physical preparations. His body went through the motions of assuming a correct singing posture; abdomen firm and expandable, chest high but relaxed, and knees flexibly loose.

I remember? I guess I- no, this doesn't prove-

Greg interrupted his thoughts with a loud strum. A single, ringing chord, gratefully relinquished by the instrument in his hands. A chord Alan couldn't exactly place. Then, Greg continued to the intro. Three quick notes in succession, ending in a trill. An unmistakable musical signature. Finally, the realization of what Greg was doing hit Alan. His eyes widened.

I-I can't sing this! Especially not- not after all this time, and I've only heard it once, and-

"C'mon man, you know the words," Greg urged, seeing Alan's hesitation. He entered the first chord progression, looking at the young physicist with an encouraging grin. But Alan's was standing stock-still, too busy internally grappling with the situation to notice. "Well alright, but these chords're gonna keep loopin' 'till they're happy, and they won't be happy 'till the vocals come around to keep 'em company!"

Alan couldn't resist a smirk. How can he be so hokey all the time? But it worked. Alan felt relaxed, like it didn't matter what he actually sang. So long as he sang. Alan took a deep, calming breath. When he heard the progression loop back to the start, he sucked in a quick breath, tensed his abdomen, and sang.

I know I'm not that smart-

"The first one's 'tall!'" Greg corrected laughingly. Alan smiled and revised his verse with a quick in-tone correction.

-I-mean-tall

Greg gave him a thumbs up before rushing his hand back to his guitar.

I know I'm not that smart

But let me drive my van into your heart

Let me drive my van into your heart

Alan filled the small musical gap between verses with a laugh. "I-I don't have your baritone, Greg!"

Greg joined him with a chuckle. "Sing it up an octave!"

I know I'm not that rich-

-because-I-work-in-a-car-wash

Alan snuck the last line in to a small series of whooping laughs from Greg.

I'm trying to get my start

So let me drive my van into your heart

Let me drive my van into your heart

As Greg plunged into the bridge, Alan could feel himself getting pulled in with him. Greg's strumming grew more involved- more excited and happy. And Alan's could feel the lyrics sitting at the back of his throat, eager for the moment when his diaphragm would push a gust of air from his lungs past his vocal chords, vibrating them in a series of frequencies that would carry each words out into the world in a way that no conversational tone could ever manage.

And if we look out of place

Alan coughed through a small snort of laughter, his voice straining in its upper register. "Greg, it's- haha, it's too high!"

"Then quit singin' it up the octave!" Greg replied, smile growing wide and prominent across his face. Alan nodded and jumped back into the song.

Well, baby, that's okay

I'll drive us into outer space

Where we can't hear what people say

Greg played through the end of the bridge energetically, ramping up his musical contribution until the last, hanging note. Alan could feel his voice follow him, stretching the word 'say' into a dipping and rolling tone that grew as loud as Greg's guitar and stopped as abruptly as Greg did. They both let the last rings of Greg's guitar, and the last echoes of Alan's voice, diffuse into the air for a moment, reveling in the acoustic imprint their last notes had left. Then, they both fell back into the last verse.

I know I don't have a plan

I'm working on that part

At least I've got a van

So let me drive my van into your heart

"Bring it home, kid!"

Alan nodded enthusiastically, grinning to himself. And to Greg. And to the song they were about to bring to an end.

Let me drive my van into your heart!

Greg started flailing his long head of hair back and forth, a hypnotic rotation which Alan had to watch. He started moving as well- bobbing with the beat, swinging with the rhythm, and moving his feet wherever they felt compelled.

Let me drive my van into your heart

Alan felt something touch his back- a lot of something. With mild surprise, he found that he was back-to-back with Greg. They both threw a reflexive look back, and, upon seeing each other's surprised expressions, they both broke out into huge, collaborative grins.

Let me drive my van into your heart!

Greg shut his eyes tight, entering the final round of strumming with as much fuss and enthusiasm as when he began. Alan took a deep breath, readying himself for the last notes he would get to enjoy in their performance.

Let me drive my van into your heart

Alan held his last note out, savoring it for as long as it was tasteful to do so. Greg joined him, strumming a rapid tremolo on his last chord to carry its energy through. When he heard Alan's voice quaver with note-stretching vibrato and finally stop, Greg ended the song with one last, strong chord. Both performers slumped to the ground, still back-to-back with each other. They let the song's terminal notes swirl about for a moment, ringing in their ears and bouncing off some far-off, echoing terrain until it finally took its leave. Then, they grinned. A grin that took life as a mutual giggle. A giggle that rolled into an earnest chuckle. Then, finally, Alan and Greg laughed. Open-mouthed, unabashed, and gleeful. Alan jumped to his feet to face Greg, who tipped backwards precariously before catching himself and standing to face Alan.

"See, man? I told you ya still-"

"Greg, that was great! It was all so- so simple! They were just words, and- and I just gave them notes and I breathed them out and- haha! It was-... ahem. Yes. That was fun, Greg. Thank you."

"Hey man, you got it. I mean you, um, still got it. It's like I said, ya know? Somethin' you liked for that long- it's not somethin' you lose."

It's not. You're right, Greg- it's not. It's not!

Still smiling, Alan all but ran for the main office.

"H-hey, kid, what's the matter?"

"Nothing's 'the matter!'" Alan yelled back, "I just- I just realized something and-"

Oh, it's no use explaining. I just need my notebook!

Alan barged through the office door and bounded for his closet. Barging through that door, he grabbed his notebook and pencil and brought them outside. He held the pages up to the light, trying to splash as much illumination as he could onto the scrawled notes within.

How long have I spent staring at equations? At laws and proofs and the mathematical basis behind the very fabric of reality? How long have I been working with particles and forces and arcane computations that model the workings of our universe?

Alan smiled. He spotted it- the form of single-particle to single-particle transdimensional interaction was similar to that of the electromagnetic interaction between two charged particles, and to that of gravitational interaction between two masses. It was surrounded by foreign symbols and unfamiliar notation and confusing mathematics, but it was there.

This is a force. A complex, composite, confusing, and unbelievable force. But it's a force.

He flipped to the large matrix of symbols he had copied off of Pearl's board earlier, eyes zipping between elements in a familiar pattern.

And these are the rules. They're in separate dimensions, of course it wouldn't be simple! Of- of course none of this would be simple! But...

Alan flipped back to the start of the notebook, determined to journey through the past two days of notes with a new eye.

But it never is. It wasn't when I learned electromagnetism. It wasn't when I learned quantum mechanics. It's never simple, but I like doing it.

Alan nodded to himself and plopped down in a lawn-chair, slouching forwards and grasping his pencil eagerly.

It's never simple. But it's not something you lose.

Alan found Pearl at their usual spot, pacing back and forth and twiddling her thumbs worriedly. When she caught sight of him, Pearl stood straight as a board and waved stiffly.

"O-oh, Alan! You're here. Which shouldn't be a surprise, given that we- um, that we agreed to meet here. Every morning. Yes... hello. Alan." Alan raised a brow. It was the start of another morning lesson, but rather than the feeling of dismal confusion he had felt the previous day, Alan was eager. Excited, even. He clutched his notebook in one hand, thumb idly brushing the pages he had poured over the day before. Alan had spent every moment not washing cars on reviewing his notes; every theorem, every equation, every variable, and every calculation. He hadn't understood them all, not even a bit. But he had a grasp on the material- a small, firm grasp. And he was determined to never let it go.

"Good morning, Pearl. How-... Pearl?"

Pearl looked up. She had begun pacing and twiddling her thumbs again, and regarded him with the same thinking gaze he had last seen her brandish the day before. "Alan. Please, take a seat." Pearl gestured to a pair of seat cushions laying snugly in the sand, perfectly covering the shallow depressions where the two usually sat.

Ooo, proper seating. What a delight!

He plopped down on the comfortable spot. Pearl folded her legs gracefully underneath her. "Now, Alan. I've been thinking, and I realize that yesterday may have been... discouraging. But I want you to know that you can do this. We just have to take another look at-"

Alan held a hand up, stopping a surprised Pearl in the midst of her well-rehearsed speech. Then, he gestured at one of the plastic spheres still sitting in the sand. Pearl touched the sphere lightly, looking up at him with a questioning expression. Alan nodded, and, with a small sigh, Pearl moved the sphere.

Directly to the right, slightly up. Given the dimensional transference matrix from yesterday, the other particle should...

Alan put his hand on the second sphere, pulling it towards him- then, looping it to the left and pushing it into the sand. Pearl's eyes widened slightly. They both set their particles back to rest position, and Pearl moved hers again.

Towards me, down slightly, and looping to the right. Alright. That means...

Alan pushed his sphere to the left Pearl, looping it upwards before performing another looping maneuver towards Pearl. "Y-yes. Yes, Alan, that is correct!" With a slight tremble of excitement, Pearl prescribed another trajectory; straight up, then looping towards Pearl and jolting to the right at the last moment. Alan grabbed his own sphere and brought it to the left, looping it towards Pearl and back around towards him.

"The jolt at the end would actually bring it down for another loop," Pearl corrected, "but other than that, that was correct!"

"O-oh, it would? I- haha, I guess I forgot about affects from change in acceleration."

That pesky fourth derivative always got me when I was learning conventional physics, too.

With a wide grin on her face, Pearl took her particle and swung it in an elaborate pattern through the sand, pushing it down and popping it back up into her hand at the end. She looked up at Alan with gleeful anticipation.

I... that's...

Alan sighed and dropped his particle. Not a sad sigh; it didn't speak of defeat or exasperation or sorrow. It was a sigh coaxed from the knowledge that he had a lot of work ahead of him. Good work. Work he could pursue earnestly and immerse himself in. "I think I need to learn more before I can, um... decode something like that."

"Oh," Pearl said, dropping her own particle with a sheepish little laugh. "Right, I shouldn't have-... right. Right! B-but, but yesterday you- a-and today you-! Well, you understood it! I thought for a good while that you were going to, I don't know, give up!"

Alan grinned. Give up? No, certainly not. But fail? Insufficiently perform? Those I can do. Because this is what I like. And one day-

Alan flipped his notebook open, readying his pencil. Pearl nodded and turned towards the chalkboard, drawing P1 and P2 in their familiar spots.

-one day, I'll have a show-stopper.