Rupture by Curtis Hox

Those are lies told in the name of science—”
    “Okay,” Kimberlee said and backed away a little.
    Simone closed the distance between them. “I need to know a more about him. What was he into?”
    “He likes computers …”
    Simone quieted. “Come on, let’s walk and talk.”
    * * *
    They left the building and walked over to the track field. The Sterling School’s main campus sat snug between the track and football field on one side and the baseball field on the other. The school also rested in the shadow of a gentle ridge lined with tall, thin Ponderosa pine trees that swayed in the wind. Beyond it, in the distance the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains rose up to ring Sterling’s agriculture farm land, thousands of acres of regulated dairy and cattle pastures. Simone talked the entire time, enjoying the smell of honeysuckle in the air and the cool breeze coming in off the mountains. She and Kimberlee circled the track four times, an entire mile, before resting at the snack shop for a juice—no soda at the Sterling School.  
    After their refreshment, Simone followed Kimberlee to the Visual Arts Center, which, like the clinic, also abutted the main campus building. The Visual Arts Center looked a bit hipper than the other buildings with its exposed industrial struts along the ceiling and stout pillars with big rivets painted a deep crimson. Student paintings hung all over the place in a variegated mishmash of subject matter from portraits and still lifes to abstract and even political art. Sculptures lined an entire wall. It looked like one big heterogeneous gallery dedicated to all things Art.
    “Impressive,” Simone said. She thought she might spend the rest of the day browsing the student projects on the walls, hoping for a clue where to find Joss, when Kimberlee said, “Hey, that’s a new money machine.”
    Kimberlee walked over. “I need some cash.” She pulled out her phone to send her PIN. “That’s weird. It won’t accept my info.” And then, “Hey, look.”
    On the screen, Simone saw a simple question: Does 2 + 2 = 5 ?
    “Use alpha-numerals,” Simone said.
    Kimberlee punched the numbers for no .
    Wrong answer appeared in the middle of the screen.
    “Type yes,” Simone said.
    “But it doesn’t—”
    “So. Do it.”
    She did.
    Correct Answer displayed on the screen.
    A twenty-dollar bill popped into the tray.
    “No way,” Kimberlee said, retrieving the crisp bill.
    Another question appeared: Why?
    “Why what?” Kimberlee asked.
    “Why two plus two equals five,” Simone replied. She smelled Rogue games. They loved unsettling human minds. And there was nothing more irrational than twisting the logic of basic arithmetic. Making the impossible, possible.
    Simone remembered reading George Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four last year in her AP class at Ellington. She had seen this idea that two plus two equals five more than once in the story. Her English teacher stressed that a big part in understanding the novel is teasing out why the authoritarian Party wants to make the main character Winston think that two plus two equals five. It’s central to understanding the novel, her teacher had said. “The Party wants to break his spirit and his sense of rationality in the its quest to make Winston love it. Only by making him deny rational truth can they do it. Remember class, two plus two can never equal five, no matter what anyone tells you. It’s a logical impossibility, even if someone—or something—like Big Brother demands it.”
    “Type: Because Big Brother says so,” Simone said.
    “Hey. That’s in the book Joss likes.”
    “Just do it.”
    Kimberlee did.
    Correct answer.
    This time a hundred dollars in twenties popped into the tray.
    “Look at that!” Kimberlee grabbed the money and fanned out the bills. “I rarely use cash anymore, but—”
    “This is bad,” Simone said.
    “No,” Kimberlee corrected her like she was missing the entire point. “This is awesome.