Frank O'Shea was not a smart man by most definitions. He'd finished eleventh grade and left school to work in a steel mill because his father had died and there were five kids to feed. He couldn't tel
That was the thing about Frank. He could think. He thought all the time, usually while standing in front of a furnace at three in the morning, sweat running down his back, listening to the metal sing. The equation had come to him the way ideas often came to Frank—not as a lightning bolt but as a slow unfolding, like a flower that takes forty years to bloom and then opens in a single afternoon....
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