"I like your shirt," Tycho said to the baby. "I'm indifferent to the color, and I certainly can't recognize its affiliation with any organized sports team. I sincerely doubt it has one." The baby stared back, blankly.
"I like the number, though," Tycho continued. "8; that's a good number. Aesthetically pleasing to the eye, several distinct planes of symmetry, the first non-prime cubed integer... I'm sure your mother wasn't aware of any of that when she picked the shirt out. Probably matched her socks at the moment.
Tycho glanced up at the room-length mirror for a moment. "I'm sorry. I'm not supposed to speak with negativity. I've read that even at your age, you have that awareness, an instinct about it. I'm comfortable with that idea. You don't need me to be just loud vowels and stuttering syllables, do you? Calm, measured tones, comforting and confident; eye contact within your range of sight; delicate, warm contact... I can do that."
Ivy cocked her head, listening intently to Tycho. He helped her stand. "If I could choose a jersey number, I'd wear 37. It's an unassuming prime, but when you triple it, it's 111, and that comes in handy so much more than you would expect. A secret weapon, kind of."
The child was concentrating on keeping on her feet; he continued, regardless. "I'm kind of a prime integer, so you know. I don't know which parts of me came from my father or mother. The parents that raised me did what they could. But I'm just me. There's no formula for me. "But there is a formula for you, and you deserve to know it - all of it."
Ivy's legs gave, and she tumbled. Ready to cry, she looked to Tycho for her next step. From across the room, he said, "I'm here." Silently, she crawled to the wall, and braced herself up.
Inspired by the Discover Magazine article, "Two Elusive Prime Number Problems Solved"
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