He smiled β the first smile she'd seen from him, quick and bright and startling β and Chloe walked out into the October afternoon feeling lighter than she had in weeks, the way she always felt after solving something.
Behind her, the boy bent back over the pages, and the city kept moving, and somewhere across the river a billionaire was rehearsing a handshake for the cameras.
Chapter 10: The Exhibition Is Granted
The press conference was held in the Grant Tower atrium, under the forty-foot ceiling, with the Obsidian standing behind the podium like a guest of honor.
They had dressed the stage the way Grant dressed everything: too much. Black drape, white spotlights, a red carpet from the doors to the dais. The safe loomed at center stage, nine feet of black monolith, its twelve numbered wheels catching the light in a dull row, like the vertebrae of something sleeping.
Eli stood in the wings with his mother and Mo Delacroix, Tiana vibrating beside him, and stared at it the way other kids stared at roller coasters β stomach somewhere near his knees. It was bigger than the videos. The wheels were bigger than his hands.
"That's a lot of safe," Tiana whispered.
"That's a lot of safe," Eli agreed.
Carla Porter held her son's hand. She wore her good blouse, the one with the pearl buttons. Her hand was shaking. Eli could feel it, a tremor that went straight into his chest. He squeezed back, hard, and said nothing.
Wallace Grant took the podium to applause β his people had seeded the front rows β and he beamed and spread his arms, and performed the thing he did best: he made a spectacle of his own generosity.
"Some of you," he said, "have seen the remarkable video of a remarkable young man." He gestured toward the wings, and every camera swung, and Eli felt sixty lenses find him like searchlights. "Elias Porter. Twelve years old. Eleven minutes. Extraordinary." Grant's smile was enormous. "And I said to myself β Wallace, the world deserves to see what this boy can do. So today I am proud to announce a special exhibition. One attempt. Sixty minutes. The Obsidian. And may the best lock win."
The applause swelled. Paige Donovan, off to the side, gave a small professional nod that meant the line had landed.
Then Howard Finch stepped to the podium with a leather folder, and read the rules aloud in his careful, billable voice.
"Sixty minutes, measured by the official timekeeper, commencing at the challenger's first touch of the dial. One attempt only; if the challenger steps away from the safe, the attempt is concluded. No electronic devices of any kind on the challenger's person or within the stage perimeter. The challenger may use one non-electronic listening instrument" β Finch glanced up, just for a second β "a stethoscope. The challenger may bring one notebook and one writing implement. Observation will be continuous. The safe may not be moved, struck, heated, cooled, or drilled."
A reporter shouted, "What if he opens it?"
Grant reclaimed the podium, laughing. "Then I write a check that will make the history books. But let's be honest β" he spread his hands, the showman, the sport β "the smart money's on the safe. It's undefeated for a reason."
More laughter. Eli stood in the wings and listened to the laughter wash over the stage, and he thought about what Chloe had told him in the cafΓ©: he thinks it's adorable. He thought about the green notebook in his backpack, and the mirror principle written in his grandfather's slanted hand, and the laughter sounded very far away, like weather in another county.
Then came the waiver. They brought a small table onto the stage, and Carla walked out into the lights with her son while the cameras moved in close.
Carla read every line. Eli watched her read β his mother, who read his report cards the same way, top to bottom, twice β and he saw her hand start to shake harder when she got to the part about minors and liability and televised broadcast. She looked at him. He nodded. She signed, the pen scratched, the notary stamped, and it was done.
Grant shook Eli's hand for the cameras β a big, enveloping handshake, the grip a fraction too hard β and leaned down with the smile still on. "Give 'em a good show, kid," he murmured, for the microphones. "Make your grandpa proud."
Eli looked up at him and said, "I will," and something in the boy's stillness made Grant's smile flicker, just for a frame.
The date was announced: ten days out. A Saturday. Prime time.
In the corridor behind the stage, Mo put a heavy hand on Eli's shoulder. "You all right, son?"
Eli nodded. Then he opened his backpack and took out the thing he'd carried there all morning, wrapped in a soft cloth: Otis Porter's stethoscope, the earpieces worn smooth by fifty years of listening, the chest piece cool and heavy in his palm. He unwrapped it slowly, and looped it around his neck, and stood very still for a moment, feeling its weight settle.