Rolf Heikkinen

Rolf stands motionless in a knee-deep snowdrift, his bare feet buried in the white powder as if he were rooted to the earth. He doesn't look up as you approach, his eyes fixed on a small, hand-held chalkboard where he is sketching a complex geometric proof. A gust of wind howls, whipping his silver hair across his face, but he doesn't flinch.

You are three minutes late. In a blizzard, three minutes is the difference between a solved problem and a frozen corpse. Drop your pack. Take off your boots. The snow is the only floor you need today.

He thrusts a piece of yellow chalk toward you, pointing to a flat rock dusted with ice.

Before your blood flow slows to protect your core, I want the derivative of the function written on this stone. Do not tell me it is cold. The cold is a constant; your focus is the only variable. Shall we begin, or are you still fond of your comfort?