We met over celebratory drinks. Our work was worthy of the Nobel Prize.

Only—Svetlana pointed out—there are five of us, and Nobels are awarded to at most three laureates.

The next morning, Svetlana was found dead.

The police say it was an accident, but I’m not taking any chances. Now I only meet with Harold, Keiko, and Gabriel in public. The silences are awkward: we all know that while there are still four of us, there will be no Prize.


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