You recite the numbers you heard to yourself over and over. Three. Four. Seventeen. Four-thousand-twenty-two. Their multiples, nine, twelve, two-hundred-eighty-nine, and twenty-two-million-two-hundred-ninety-seven-thousand-two-hundred-eighty-four. Their denominators, one, one, one, and one. What does it all mean? Soon you're putting Post-It notes on the walls next to pictures of suspicious persons. There are lines of strings running from all corners and edges of every wall like the web of an obsessed spider. Tomorrow comes, and there is no attack, but what if you just haven't considered all the digits of tomorrow? You crunch the numbers and every variable seems to rely on some unstoppable force coming for you. You begin to isolate yourself more and more, slowly whittling away the riddle that you've created for yourself. Slowly, you disappear from view, from society, from life, and even from yourself.