Chapter 6

Sheep

Max thumbed to the next page of the tattered hardback. The cover, once navy blue, had faded to the colour of old denim. The title, The little prince, was still just visible, though the spine had long since given up pretending it held the book together. Max had cherished it since he was a boy. Not just for its beautiful words and illustrations, but for the sense of wonder he felt whenever he read it.

The story had originally been written in 1942 by the French author Antoine de Saint-Exupéry. It was then translated into English by Katherine Woods for its simultaneous publication in French and English in 1943. As the book's popularity grew, many later translations were based on Woods' English edition. And with that, most of the world would come to read the famous line: Once upon a time there was a little prince who lived on a planet that was scarcely any bigger than himself, and who had need of a sheep.

Max sat propped against a mound of pillows on the bed. Most of the space technically belonged to Magnus, though an oversized fox lay slumped across the foot of the mattress and had a strong claim, its shape distorted by years of enthusiastic affection. The sheets beneath them were printed with rockets and planets, their colours softened by time and washing.

“But it’s just a drawing?” piped a small voice. “I don’t understand…”

Magnus, his eight-year-old son, was curled against Max’s side in space-themed pyjamas that almost matched the bedspread. His head rested on Max’s chest, rising and falling with his father’s breathing.

“Yes, well, this story can be a little hard to follow,” Max said gently. His voice was hoarse, worn thin by late nights and long conversations. “We can read something else if you want?”

“No, no, I want this book. It's not hard. I understand it… most of it.” Magnus said, fingers worrying a loose thread on the blanket. “A pilot crashed his plane in the desert, then he meets a boy called the Little Prince. The Prince asks the pilot to draw him a sheep, but he’s really picky. He doesn’t like any of the pilot’s drawings. Then the pilot just draws a box with air holes and says the sheep is inside, and the Little Prince says the picture is perfect.”

Max nodded. “Sounds like you’re keeping up. So what’s bothering you?”

“The drawing of the sheep. It’s rubbish,” said Magnus, frowning. “Why does he like it more than the other pictures?”

Max laughed.

“Daaad.”

“Sorry, it’s a good question.”

Magnus tilted his head to look up at him. “Hey, Dad, can I be an astronaut when I’m older?”

“You can be whatever you put your mind to,” said Max. “Asking questions is the most important part of any job, and you’re good at asking questions.”

Magnus grinned, all teeth and pride.

“Now,” Max said, closing the book, “shall we try another story. This one is a bit heavy for bed time.”

“But Dad,” Magnus said, “wasn’t this your favourite book when you were my age?”

“Yes, but—”

“Then I want to read it too,” Magnus said, bouncing slightly. “You can explain the hard bits, like the sheep in a box.”

Max shook his head, smiling. “Spoiler alert, but the book never says why he likes that picture best. Nobody actually knows.”

“Dad, I thought you knew everything? Why would you like a book you don’t understand?”

Max didn’t answer straight away. His fingers brushed the frayed edge of the cover, then he glanced toward the open doorway. The house was quiet. It felt odd. It was the kind of quiet that made you want to lower your voice and whisper. He wondered where Daphne was. She usually joined them during story time.

He returned his attention to the book and remembered how obsessed he had been with it as a child, and again as an adult. Something between the pages always pulled him in. Curiosity. He had believed there were deeper layers to the story. But it was probably just the way his mind worked. He hadn't got where he was today by simply accepting a theoretical formula at first glance. He always had to dig for a meaning within the meaning.

Daphne, his wife, had spent more than twenty years as Professor of Mythology and Religious Philosophy at Georgetown University. Her work explored the philosophical ideas woven through the world's religions and mythologies, from Plato and Dante to the Gnostic texts and the great epics of the ancient world. She had published dozens of academic papers, written several acclaimed books on comparative mythology, and her public lecture series regularly attracted audiences far beyond the university. Max had first met her at one of those evening seminars. The subject had been The Little Prince. He had enrolled because of his lifelong fascination with the book. 

She had always poked fun at Max for his obsession with the book and often countered his scientific theories with philosophical ones.

Satisfied they were alone, Max leaned closer to Magnus. “Want to hear a theory of mine?” he whispered. 

Magnus’s eyes widened. He wriggled closer. “Is this so Mum doesn’t hear? Is it science stuff?”

“Something like that, yeh,” said Max. “She teases me about it. Best not to give her more material. I’ve always believed the book has another story hiding inside it. One that most people don’t see.”

The lights in Magnus’s room flickered. Once. Twice. Then they steadied. A moment passed and Max became suddenly aware of the stillness of the room, as both occupants sat motionless, staring at wall lights, anticipating whether the event had passed. It had.

Magnus chewed his lip. “Dad?..”

“Yes, Moonbeam.”

A pause. Then, barely a whisper. “Is the house… haunted?”

“Of course not.” Max said,  reassuringly. “That was just the wiring. It's a really old house, and it needs renovations done, and it will get them too, as soon as I'm back. In fact I have some great ideas for some technical upgrades, home automation, better WiFi—”

Magnus had stopped listening. He turned toward the corner of the room. The wooden panelling there didn’t quite sit flush with the wall. It was older. Darker. Something structural that had been built around, not removed. “Sometimes,” Magnus said quietly, “when the lights flicker, I feel like there are ghosts in the walls. I hear them. Banging.” He pointed.

Max followed his gaze. “well, that’s normal,” he said. “When people get scared, their brains start filling in gaps. They imagine things that aren’t really there.”

Magnus considered this. “But,” he whispered, “what if it’s the other way around?”

“The other way around?” asked Max.

Magnus swallowed, his small Adam’s apple bobbing. “What if things are really there, all the time, but we can’t see them? What if we can only see them, when we’re scared?”

Kids say strange things all the time. But the careful way Magnus spoke, the thought-out precision of it, made the words feel heavier.

“Magnus—”

“Not the kind of scared you get when someone’s mean to you,” Magnus interrupted, his voice trembling now. “The other kind of scared. The kind that makes all the hairs on your arms stand up.”

The warm glow of the wall lights flickered again briefly. A single, quick pulse. Barely there. But enough to make the shadows stretch for a heartbeat, as if something long and thin had unfurled its fingers from the corner. Then the noise came again. A sharp rustling from behind the panelling. Scraping. Something moving.

“That,” said Max, “is a mouse.”

“A mouse?”

“Yep,” said Max. “They get into the walls. Chew insulation. Mess with wiring. That’s probably what’s been flickering the lights.”

“No, it sounds big, too big for a mouse.”

“Timber panelled walls, hollow inside. They can do that, amplify sound, make it seem louder.” Max said. “A tiny mouse can sound like a monster in there.”

Magnus hesitated. Then, slowly, he relaxed back into the blankets. “You sure, Dad?”

“Positive.” He let out a breath, the tension draining from his shoulders. “I’ll call someone in the morning,” Max added.

Magnus nodded, already burrowing deeper beneath the duvet. A moment passed. “But Dad—”

Max didn’t look at him. He already knew what was coming.

“The story,” Magnus murmured. “You said you know why the prince wanted the box.”

Max glanced at the clock. “I said I had a theory,” he replied. “It’s late.”

“Please,” Magnus said. “Just tell me. Then we can read more tomorrow.”

Max sighed. He glanced toward the doorway. Nothing there. Still, he lowered his voice. “All right,” he said. “I never solved the whole book. I found pieces. Clues. Maybe we can figure the rest out together.”

Magnus's eyes lit up. Max hesitated, then said, "Ever heard of Schrödinger's cat?"

Schrödinger's cat had become one of the most famous thought experiments in modern science, not because it provided answers, but because it asked a question that physicists still struggle to answer.

In 1935, Austrian physicist Erwin Schrödinger devised a thought experiment to illustrate the strange implications of quantum mechanics. He imagined a cat sealed inside a box with a radioactive atom, a detector, and a vial of poison. If the atom decayed, the detector would shatter the vial, killing the cat. If it did not, the cat would survive. According to quantum mechanics, before the box was opened the atom existed in a superposition of both possible outcomes. Since the cat's fate depended entirely on the atom, it too became trapped in this quantum state, mathematically existing as both alive and dead until an observation was made. Schrödinger's purpose was not to suggest this actually occurred, but to demonstrate how bizarre the theory appeared when applied to everyday objects.

Max explained the experiment as simply as he could.

Magnus frowned. "Does the box have air holes?"

"Erm, I don't—”

"Will the cat become radioactive?"

"No."

"Is it a zombie cat?"

Max laughed. "Those are all excellent questions... but no. 

To be totally honest, most people would argue that Schrödinger's cat has little more in common with Saint-Exupéry's sheep than the fact that they're both inside a box. They're probably right. But I sometimes think people miss the forest for the trees. The part of Schrödinger's cat that has always fascinated me wasn't the fine details but the idea itself. Schrödinger hid a cat inside a box to illustrate how its fate remained uncertain until it was observed. Saint-Exupéry hid a sheep inside a box to illustrate something almost opposite. By making the sheep impossible to observe, he somehow removed the uncertainty altogether. The sheep becomes whatever the Prince believes it to be. A kind of conceptual inversion of the same idea. What always fascinated me was that the Prince asked for a drawing instead of a real sheep. It is as though the problem was never physical to begin with. It could be solved not by providing a sheep, but by sharing a belief.

Magnus thought about it for a moment. "So... it's a magic sheep."

"Yeah," Max whispered. "Something like that. I always felt it was important. I just never worked out why. Anyway, that's enough for tonight.”

“Cool. Can we read more tomorrow?”

“Sure,” said Max. “No more ghosts tonight, okay.”

A sleepy mumble. “Still doesn’t make sense.”

Max smiled and put the book on the bedside table. “One day,” he said softly. “We’ll work it out.”

Magnus was already drifting, his weight sinking into the pillows. Max waited until the breathing evened out. Then he eased himself free, tucked the duvet around his son, and kissed his forehead. “I love you, Moonbeam.” Magnus didn’t stir. Max turned toward the door. And stopped.

Daphne stood in the doorway, arms folded, watching him with that familiar look. Warm. Knowing. Dangerous in its gentleness. “Maximus,” she said softly, fondness and warning intertwined. “What have I told you about filling our son’s head with quantum physics?” She pushed away from the door frame, her movements unhurried but deliberate. Max didn’t move. “And your little conspiracy theory about that book too.” She stepped closer. “His school friends already tease him enough because of who his dad is,” she said. “Don’t drag him into your little conspiracy theory too.”

“But, he asked—”

Her arms slipped around his waist, cutting him off. She rested her head against his chest, fitting there as though she'd always belonged. As though there had never been anywhere else. The scent of her hair rose around him. Familiar. Soft. Home.

“Shut up, Max,” she said, her voice muffled against his shirt. “Just tell me you love me.”

His breath hitched. His arms closed around her, holding her tightly. “I love you, Flower.” A nickname which had evolved over time. From Daphne to Daph’, then Daph to daffodil, and finally from Daffodil to Flower. He was aware of this name's deeper, second meaning,  and so was she. The little Prince had also fallen in love with a flower, a rose.

She sighed. A fragile, broken sound. “I know you do,” she said. “I don’t want you to go.” Her grip tightened.

Max felt her fingers press harder into his back, as if she could anchor him there. As if she could hold him in place and keep the inevitable from happening. “It’s okay,” he said, brushing a thumb over her cheek. “I’m not leaving for another three months. I’ll be back before you know it.”

Her body shook. She buried her face into his chest, breath hitching, sobbing against him. “No, Max. You don’t understand.” She pulled back. Her face was streaked with blood. It ran down her cheek, smeared across her temple, dark and wet.

“Flower?” His voice barely formed the word. He pulled away, stepped backwards.

“Max, I want you to stay. Here. With me. With us. I miss you Max, I miss you so much!” 

Then he feels it. Warmth spreads across his chest. He looks down and sees his shirt soaked through, blood seeping outward and blooming across the fabric in deep scarlet waves. His hands fly to the source, pressing hard, and when he pulls them back his fingers are slick and dripping crimson. He lifts his gaze to her as a memory begins to surface: a hospital room, machinery, white lights, something he needs to do.

“I miss you, Max,” she says again, her voice cracking with grief. “I really don’t want you to wake up!”

“But, I’m—”

Pain detonates through him, white-hot and overwhelming. His spine arches as another shock tears through his body, forcing his jaw open as air is driven sharply into his lungs. Light swallows the room and voices burst in from everywhere.

“He’s back. I have a pulse,” a voice shouts beside him.

The world snaps violently into focus. Fluorescent lights glare overhead. Alarms scream. Monitors shriek in uneven rhythms while figures in scrubs rush around him. He is no longer standing. He is back in his hospital bed, a doctor looming beside him with defibrillator paddles still in hand.

His chest convulses. His lungs burn. The tube still violates his throat and he gags around forced breaths that do not belong to him. The room spins, but her face still lingers in his memory. Tears slide sideways into his hair.

Was that a dream, or was that death?

His new heart stopped. He is sure of it. He has heard stories of people seeing their lives flash before their eyes, but this didn’t feel like that. It felt like stepping into a single moment that was somehow both memory and something else.

His fists clench weakly in the sheets. He needs to get out of this hospital. He needs to get back to his lab. He needs to talk to Hermes.

Most importantly, he needs to know.