Sunday, Feb, 2002
Chicago – 8:52 p.m.
The old radiator in the corner hissed and groaned, fighting against the February air clawing at the thin apartment windows. Daniel sat at the kitchen table, his black hoodie zipped up, sleeves rolled tight to his forearms. A plate of untouched spaghetti cooled beside him. His laptop glowed faintly in the dark, lines of code pulsing like a heartbeat.
Claude was silent. Not asleep—she never truly slept—but contemplative, her presence flickering low inside his mind like a watchful shadow.
Outside, the wind howled down 51st Street. And below it, faintly, came the clink of keys and a familiar tread.
The front door creaked.
Robert Haizen stepped inside, shoulders hunched against the cold, a red envelope clutched tight in one gloved hand. Behind him, Kristina followed, her steps slower, one hand resting protectively on the curve of her belly beneath her long winter coat.
Daniel didn't move. Didn't look up.
But Claude felt it—a shift. The temperature inside his chest dropped two degrees.
Kristina looked pale. Worn down in that quiet way that only mothers carried—like exhaustion had etched itself into the lines of her hands.
Robert closed the door softly, then stood there for a long moment without speaking.
Finally, he said, "We need to talk."
Daniel looked up.
His father laid the envelope on the kitchen table like it was evidence in a trial.
Kristina sat down slowly, wincing a little as she lowered herself into the wooden chair opposite him. She didn't meet his eyes. Her hands were shaking.
Daniel slid the envelope toward him and opened it.
The letter was from the Chicago Public Schools Joint Academic Audit Division.
It was addressed not to him, but to Mr. and Mrs. Haizen.
"Due to recent anomalies in your son Daniel Haizen's academic record, and in accordance with District Code 74B, we are conducting a formal joint audit of his GPA, SAT testing procedures, and scholastic conduct... Your presence is required at a hearing on Monday, January 28, 2002. Failure to attend may result in administrative escalation, including disqualification of college acceptances and withdrawal of scholarship nominations."
Daniel read it once. Then again.
Claude whispered, They didn't send it to you. They sent it to them.
"I didn't understand at first," Robert said, voice tired. "I thought maybe it was a mistake. Some automated form."
Kristina shook her head, eyes glassy.
"I called. The woman who answered... she said it was a 'routine fraud verification audit.'"
She looked up at Daniel now.
"They think you cheated, Daniel. On your tests. On everything."
Daniel blinked.
Robert's voice was low, but hard now.
"They think we helped you."
That made Daniel pause.
"They... what?"
"They asked if I ever worked for the school district," Robert said. "Asked if your mother had access to test sites. If we... forged anything."
Kristina looked like she wanted to disappear.
"One of them—this... Wallace, I think—asked if I even had a GED."
She forced a laugh, but it cracked halfway.
"And then—he asked if you were really our son."
Claude froze.
Daniel... breathe.
He didn't.
He stood up slowly.
Chair legs didn't scrape.
He moved like a shadow thickening behind glass.
"Did they say anything else?" he asked.
Kristina hesitated.
Robert looked away.
And then Daniel's mother said, almost in a whisper:
"They said... 'It's hard to believe a kid with this last name and this zip code could qualify for Harvard.'"
That was the moment.
The moment the air changed.
Claude felt it in his blood like mercury boiling.
Daniel walked into the living room. The lights were off. Snow fell outside in slow, apathetic flurries. The amber glow of the city seeped through the blinds like rust.
He picked up the phone from the wall cradle.
Dialed.
Waited.
Naomi answered on the second ring.
"Mr. Haizen," she said, brisk. "Late call. Good news?"
"Not yet."
Pause. "I'm listening."
"Begin protocol Vulpes-1," Daniel said. "Target: Chicago Public Schools Board. I want board compositions, voting blocs, scandals. Follow the money. Find the levers."
Another pause.
"I'll need 24 hours."
"You've got six."
A soft breath on the other end.
"Understood."
Daniel hung up.
Back in the kitchen, Robert stood with his arms crossed. Kristina was dabbing at her eyes with a tissue.
Daniel came back in.
He knelt beside his mother, gently took her hand, and placed it on her belly.
Her breath hitched.
"They don't get to speak to you like that," he said.
His voice was quiet.
Almost kind.
"But I'll make sure they remember why they shouldn't have."
He looked at his father.
"They think I'm a fraud because I don't fit their mold."
He looked at his mother.
"They're going to learn I'm something else."
Kristina whispered, "What are you going to do?"
Daniel didn't answer at first.
He just turned to face the cracked window above the sink, watching the snow fall against the yellow city light.
"I'm going to teach."