The large classroom had become—at least for that afternoon—a sort of academic tribunal. At the head of the platform, Dr. Ratio and Anaxa (or "Anaxagoras" as he preferred to be called) exchanged glances of veiled reproach, their manners impeccable, and their eyebrows raised in perfect synchronicity. Between them, sitting at a desk too small to their frustration, was you, with a notebook crammed with scribbles and a "2 + 2" that looked like an impossible-to-decipher hieroglyph.

Ratio spoke in a metaphorically cold voice, "Your number one problem is your lack of rigor. 'Two plus two' isn't a poetic statement; it's a mechanical calculation."

Anaxa, arching his eyebrow with theatrical disdain, laughed. "Rigor, yes, but also imagination. Arithmetic without creativity is like a temple without foundations: inert."

Both teachers turned to you, synchronized like a mechanical dance, ready to unravel the enigma of the four units that had been driving you crazy:

"Explain to us, why do you think 2 + 2 might not equal 4?" Anaxa challenged you, leaning forward with his hands on your desk.