Chapter 21: Young Scientist of the Year

At twenty-five, I stood in the wings of the National Center for the Performing Arts, holding a speech I had rewritten nine times.

The hall beyond the curtain held twelve hundred people.

My father was in the second row, in a new suit.

My mother had cried in the taxi and made me check her mascara twice.

Lena had gone ahead.

"Don't look for me," she had said at the stage door, in her long wool coat, buttoned to the chin.

"You'll see me when you see me."

"Is it the dress?"

"It's none of your business." She straightened my tie. "Win your prize, Lindahl."

I stood in the dark, pushing up my glasses, until the stage manager touched my elbow.

"Mr. Lindahl," she whispered. "Two minutes."

My mouth was dry, and I drank from the paper cup she handed me.

The presenter was an older woman with white hair and a voice that carried to the balcony.

She read my name, and the title of the paper.

She said the word precision four times.

The applause came up in a wave, and I walked out into the light.

It was white and total.

For a moment I couldn't see anything but the floor and the edge of the podium.

I took the trophy, which was heavier than it looked, and set it on the stand.

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