John laughs a little at that, absently stirring a figure eight into the glop on his tray. Equations swim across his mind's eye, expanding and imploding like tiny stars. His fingertips itch. The figure eight becomes a symbol, then the beginning of a sum.

John pushes his tray out of reach and sits back in his chair, looking up at Dex. Folds his hands under his armpits so Dex can't see that they're shaking.

"Got it in one, champ. One stop shop. Wormholes 'R' Us, all locked away," he taps the middle of his forehead with his index finger, onetwothree, "up here."