“Sign errors,” I repeated calmly.“Systems don’t care why your vector runs opposite.We correct direction, recalculate magnitude.”I grabbed the legal pad from my desk drawer, drew a T-account.“Left side debit, right side credit.Mirror it in your head.”
I drew a large T-account on the legal pad.
“Accounting isn’t about money,” I said, tapping the paper.“Money is emotional.This is a closed system.Like thermodynamics.Conservation of mass.”
Luke squinted at the pad.“I’m pretty sure accountants don’t do physics.”
“They do.They call it ‘balancing.’Inputs must equal outputs.Zero-sum game.”I drew a line down the middle.“Left side is debit.Right side is credit.Think of it like goal differential.”
I wrote HOME on the left and VISITOR on the right.
“Assets are your Home team,” I explained.“When you gain cash or equipment, you debit the Home column.A goal for you.Positive differential.”
Luke watched, elbow on knee, the training cup forgotten.
“Liabilities and Equity are the Visitors,” I continued.“When you take out a loan, you credit the Visitor column.It balances the equation.The system stays at equilibrium.”
I looked up.“If you score a goal (debit cash), you have to record where it came from (credit revenue).Action, reaction.Newton’s third law applied to a ledger.”
Luke’s mouth twitched.He looked from the T-chart to me, his eyes narrowing as the logic clicked into place.
“So, a debit isn’t ‘subtraction,’“ Luke said slowly.“It’s… adding to the Home score.”
“Exactly.And a credit isn’t ‘adding money’; it’s acknowledging the Visitor’s claim on that money.”
Luke let out a short breath, shaking his head.“I spent three weeks trying to memorize acronyms, and you fixed it with a scoreboard analogy in thirty seconds.”
“Systems are universal,” I said.“Hockey is a system.Math is a system.Business is a system.You already speak the language; you were using the wrong vocabulary.”I slid the quiz over, handed him my mechanical pencil.“Now re-enter this line.Ignore past mistakes.We forward-propagate corrections.”
He hesitated, took the pencil.I saw him roll his shoulder a couple of times while he was working.I retrieved the spare bag of peas and pressed it to his shoulder without ceremony.He flinched, then settled beneath the cold.
“Peas are conditional incentive,” I explained.“Balance the ledger, keep the ice.”
“Cruel tutor.”
“Effective.”I hovered long enough to confirm the bruise blotch hadn’t darkened, then returned to the desk.
Numbers scratched.Radiator punctuated.Outside, dorm hallway muffled a burst of laughter; quiet hours were still an hour off.Luke finished the line, handed the pencil back.
I checked: debits, credits, totals—perfect.“Good.”
He exhaled, a small sound.“One line doesn’t fix the exam.”
“Lucky us, there are only”—I counted—”eight lines per problem.We iterate.”
He started to nod, but the movement faltered halfway, like a glitch.
“What?”I asked, suddenly self-conscious of how close we were.
“Nothing.”He pressed lips together.“Just—thanks.”
“Just an assist,” I reminded.“Besides, you brave North Point for my blueberry bar addiction.”
“Not the same scale.”
“Both hinder performance.”
Luke stared at the legal pad, running his thumb over the graphite sums.
