I phoned Matt as I didn't want him to see his protector covered in blood, on top of finding out the prime had been stolen. He told me I should go to the police, so I said, "Sure, I will." But I didn't: I fix my own problems. I also asked him to restart the machines, and said nothing about MegaPrimes' threat.

I was at home, lying on my bed and staring at the white ceiling. As time passed, I thought about finding the house of the MegaPrimes boss and barging in, weapon in hand, to settle the score. But I had more immediate problems: how to transport prime numbers from our computer to the customer. Ironically, that used to be my job...

If they caught me in my car without a key or hard drive, I could say that I'm just hanging around. So where would I store a 150-digit number? On a scrap of paper hidden somewhere? And what if they searched the car? What if they burned the car? And what about if they beat me to death? Could I tell them, looking them straight in the eye, "Fuck you! I don't have the number with me!" when it was in my pocket?

I wondered if I could memorize the number... Mailing it was out of the question. I don't think I could memorize the number.

Five days later, I still hadn't set foot in Prime Numbers, Inc. (I'd told Matt I was working on a definitive solution, which was half-true). I looked dreamily at my Beretta, which could make things very simple. In the corner of my eye, beyond the mountain of pizza boxes on the coffee table, I noticed the movie, Rain Man, playing on my little TV. I joked that if only I had a 'Rain Man' to memorize the primes...

Then it hit me: Shit... That's what I was gonna do!