I stopped walking. The logic of the race evaporated. The cake no longer mattered. The charity no longer mattered. The only variable left was a simple one: my mother was on the ground.

“The cake is a vector for saturated fat,” I replied. “But you are a vector for my existence. Statistically, you are more valuable.”

“The math suggested otherwise,” I replied. “Besides, Meemaw has a second cake in her car. A chocolate one. With no ceremonial restrictions.”

Meemaw had arrived. She held a bundt cake. It was not a birthday cake. It was not a holiday cake. It was a Tuesday cake. This broke every known paradigm of domestic confectionery distribution.

The first law of cake was broken when my father cut a slice before the official post-race cooling period. The second law was broken when my mother declared the remaining cake would be the prize for the race winner. A non-caloric incentive. It was brilliant in its cruelty. A simple carbohydrate became a dopamine trap.

I still don’t believe in miracles. But I believe my mother believes in me. And for a nine-year-old physicist in Texas, that is a sufficiently stable variable.