The Variable of Greed
Numbers do not have feelings. They do not have agendas. They simply are. That is why I like them. People, on the other hand, are variables. They lie. They smile when they are angry. They say “trust me” when they are stealing from you.
My name is Leo. I am eleven years old. My IQ is 162, although my grandmother, Nana Rose, just says I have a “busy brain.” I experience the world as a series of equations. The angle of the sun, the velocity of the wind, the probability of the bus arriving on time.
Today, the probability of a bad event was high.
We were at First National Bank. Nana Rose was holding my hand tightly. Her hand was papery and shook slightly—a tremor caused by the condition she needed surgery to fix. We were there to withdraw $45,000. Her entire pension. Her life savings.
“It’s going to be okay, Leo,” she whispered, though her heart rate was elevated (I could see the pulse in her neck; approximately 95 beats per minute). “We get the cashier’s check, we pay the surgeon, and then Nana gets better.”
We walked up to the teller.
“I’d like to make a withdrawal, please,” Nana said, sliding her passbook under the glass.
The teller, a woman named Brenda, typed into her computer. Her eyes widened. She didn’t count out cash. She picked up the phone.
“One moment, Mrs. Higgins,” Brenda said with a fake smile. “For a transaction this size, Mr. Thorne needs to approve it.”
Mr. Thorne.
He emerged from a glass office at the back. He was wearing a suit that was too shiny and cologne that smelled like aggressive chemicals. He walked with a swagger that suggested he owned the building, though his name tag clearly said Senior Relationship Manager.
“Mrs. Higgins!” Thorne boomed, extending a hand. “So good to see you! And who is this little man?”
He looked at me. He didn’t see me. He saw a prop. A child to be patted on the head and ignored.
“This is my grandson, Leo,” Nana said. “We’re in a bit of a rush, Mr. Thorne.”
“Nonsense,” Thorne said, ushering us toward his office. “You can’t just walk around with that kind of money. It’s dangerous! Come in, come in. Let’s talk about keeping your assets safe.”
I didn’t like him. His smile did not reach his eyes. His eyes were calculating. He was looking at Nana the way a wolf looks at a limping deer.
Chapter 1: The Pitch
We sat in his office. Thorne offered Nana a bottle of water. He didn’t offer me one. He sat behind his mahogany desk and clasped his hands.
“Now, Rose—can I call you Rose?—I see you want to liquidate your savings account. That worries me.”
“I have medical bills,” Nana said, clutching her purse. “I need the money.”
“Of course, of course,” Thorne nodded sympathetically. “But Rose, inflation is at 4%. If you take that cash out, it loses value every second it sits in a checking account. And the surgery? What if there are complications? What if you need long-term care?”
He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
“I have a solution. A special product reserved for our preferred seniors. It’s called the ‘Golden Horizon Growth Fund’. It guarantees your principal, gives you a monthly allowance for your bills, and locks in a high interest rate.”
He slid a thick, glossy packet across the desk.
“It protects you from fraud,” Thorne added. “And it grows your legacy for… little Leo here.”
Nana looked at the packet. She looked confused. “But… can I use it to pay the doctor next week?”
“Absolutely!” Thorne lied. I knew it was a lie because his blink rate increased. “It’s flexible. We just need to move the money into this account today to secure the rate. Just sign here, and we’ll handle the rest.”
He placed a pen in her trembling hand. He flipped to the last page of the contract, pointing to the signature line.
“Just here, Rose. And we’ll keep you safe.”
Nana hesitated. She trusted bankers. She came from a generation that believed a suit and a title meant honesty.
“Well,” she said, “if you think it’s best…”
“I do,” Thorne grinned. “I treat my clients like family.”
The pen touched the paper.
“Stop,” I said.
Chapter 2: The Interruption
The word hung in the air. It was quiet, but firm.
Thorne looked at me, annoyed. “Excuse me, son?”
“Nana, don’t sign it,” I said.
“Leo, hush,” Nana said gently. “Mr. Thorne is helping us.”
“He is not helping,” I said. “He is hunting.”
Thorne laughed. It was a condescending, ugly sound. “Hunting? That’s a big imagination you have there, champ. Why don’t you play on your phone while the adults talk?”
“I want to read the contract,” I said.
Thorne scoffed. “It’s thirty pages of legalese, kid. You wouldn’t understand a word of it. It’s for grown-ups.”
“I read the Internal Revenue Code last summer because I was bored,” I stated flatly. “I understand legalese. Give it to me.”
Nana looked at me. She knew about my brain. She knew I cataloged license plates and calculated grocery tax in my head before the register did.
“Let him see it, Mr. Thorne,” Nana said, pulling the paper back. “Leo is very bright.”
Thorne sighed, rolling his eyes. “Fine. Look at the pictures, kid. But make it quick.”
He slid the packet to me.
I didn’t look at the pictures. I ignored the glossy photos of smiling old couples on yachts. I turned to the back. Terms and Conditions. Fee Structures. Withdrawal Penalties.
I read.
My eyes scanned the text. It wasn’t just words; it was a matrix of variables. And the equation didn’t balance.
Variable Annuity Class B.
Surrender Period: 10 Years.
Administrative Fee: 2.5%.
Market Value Adjustment.
I read faster. Thorne was tapping his foot. “Okay, genius, are we done? Nana needs her medicine.”
“We are not done,” I said.
I placed the document on the desk. I smoothed it out.
“Nana,” I said, looking at her. “If you sign this, you cannot take your money out for ten years.”
“What?” Nana gasped. “But he said…”
“He lied,” I said.
“Now wait a minute!” Thorne stood up, his face turning red. “That is a standard liquidity clause! There are penalty-free withdrawals up to 10%!”
“10% is $4,500,” I calculated instantly. “The surgery costs $45,000. She needs 100%.”
I stood up. I was small, but I felt tall. I looked at Thorne.
“Mr. Thorne, this contract violates at least five federal regulations. Would you like me to list them for you, or should I list them for the Branch Manager?”
Chapter 3: The Five Strikes
Thorne laughed, but he looked nervous. “You’re a kid. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Violation Number One,” I said, my voice gaining volume. ” The Truth in Lending Act. You stated verbally that the funds were ‘flexible’ for immediate medical use. Section 4, Paragraph 2 clearly states a ‘strict ten-year surrender period with a 15% penalty for early withdrawal.’ You knowingly misrepresented the terms.”
Thorne’s mouth opened.
“Violation Number Two,” I continued, pointing to a tiny footnote. “Regulation Best Interest (Reg BI) under the SEC. You are a broker-dealer. You are required to act in the best interest of the client. Putting an 80-year-old woman with immediate liquidity needs into a long-term, high-risk variable annuity is the definition of unsuitable. It generates a high commission for you, but financial ruin for her.”
Nana pulled her hand away from the desk. “High commission?”
“He gets 7% of your money the moment you sign,” I told her. “$3,150. That’s why he wants you to sign today.”
Thorne was sweating now. He reached for the papers. “Give me that.”
I slammed my hand down on the contract.
“Violation Number Three,” I said. “The Elder Abuse Prevention and Prosecution Act. You are using undue influence and fear tactics—mentioning inflation and fraud—to coerce a vulnerable senior citizen into a financial instrument she does not understand. That is a federal crime.”
People outside the glass office were stopping. Tellers were looking over. Customers were staring.
“Lower your voice,” Thorne hissed.
“Violation Number Four,” I said, louder. “Failure to Disclose Material Facts. You did not provide the prospectus before the sale, as required by FINRA Rule 2330. You went straight to the signature page.”
“Where is your manager?” Nana asked, her voice trembling with anger now.
Thorne tried to block the door. “We can work this out. I can find a different product…”
“Violation Number Five,” I finished, looking at the fee table. “Churning. I see here that you closed her CD account early to fund this. That triggered a penalty on her old account to open a new one. That is churning. It is illegal. It is predatory. And you are going to jail.”
Chapter 4: The Manager
The door to the office opened.
A tall woman in a grey suit walked in. She looked like she was made of steel. It was Mrs. Gable, the Branch Manager.
“What is going on here?” she asked. “I can hear this child from the lobby.”
Thorne forced a smile. “Mrs. Gable! Nothing, just… explaining the complexities of the market to a spirited young man. He’s a bit confused.”
“I am not confused,” I said.
I picked up the contract and handed it to Mrs. Gable.
“My name is Leo. My grandmother came to withdraw her pension. Mr. Thorne tried to lock her into a Class B Variable Annuity with a 10-year surrender period and a 15% exit fee. He failed to disclose the commission, violated Reg BI suitability standards, and attempted to churn her existing accounts.”
Mrs. Gable looked at the contract. She looked at the “Sign Here” sticker Thorne had placed on the signature line. She looked at Nana, who was clutching her passbook like a shield.
Then she looked at Thorne.
Her face went absolute zero.
“Thorne,” she said. “Step out. Now.”
“Linda, wait, the kid is twisting words…”
“Out,” she barked. “Go to the break room. Do not touch your computer. Do not touch your phone.”
Thorne grabbed his jacket and scurried out of the room like a cockroach exposed to light.
Mrs. Gable sat down. She looked at me. She didn’t look at me like a child. She looked at me like a peer.
“You caught the surrender period?” she asked.
“Page 24, subsection C,” I replied.
“And the commission structure?”
“Page 28. Hidden in the administrative fee breakdown.”
She nodded slowly. She turned to Nana.
“Mrs. Higgins, I am profoundly sorry. This product is absolutely inappropriate for your needs. Mr. Thorne… will be dealt with immediately.”
“I just want my money,” Nana said, wiping a tear. “I just want to pay the doctor.”
“You will have it,” Mrs. Gable said. “And because of this… inconvenience… the bank will be waiving all transaction fees. Furthermore…”
She typed something into her computer.
“I see Mr. Thorne charged you an ‘advisory fee’ last month. I am refunding that. With interest.”
Chapter 5: The Exit
Ten minutes later, we walked out of the bank.
Nana had a cashier’s check for $45,000 in her purse. She also had an extra $500 that Mrs. Gable had credited to her account as an apology.
Thorne was visible through the window of the break room. He was arguing with two security guards who were holding a cardboard box. He was being escorted out. Fired.
We stood on the sidewalk. The sun was shining. The probability of a good day had returned to 100%.
Nana stopped. She knelt down, ignoring her bad hip, and hugged me. She hugged me so tight I could barely breathe.
“You saved me, Leo,” she whispered. “You saved everything.”
“I just read the paper, Nana,” I said.
“No,” she said, pulling back and looking at me. “You stood up. You were my little knight.”
She reached into her purse.
“Can I buy you something? A video game? A toy?”
I thought about it.
“Can we go to the bookstore?” I asked. “The new edition of Advanced Macroeconomics just came out.”
Nana laughed. It was a bright, happy sound.
“Yes,” she said. “We can buy the whole bookstore.”
We walked down the street. I held her hand.
Numbers don’t lie. But sometimes, you need someone who knows how to read them to tell you the truth.
