It's 4:20 AM on a Tuesday. You've been up for 47 hours straight, fueled by a combination of Red Bull and existential dread. The clock on the wall says 41 is the magic number: the number of minutes you can spend staring at it before your brain starts to melt like the face of the Cheshire Cat.

You've tried everything: counting sheep, counting calories, even counting the individual threads of your favorite sweater. But nothing seems to work. The clock just keeps ticking, a cold, unforgiving heartbeat of doom.

And then, like a savior from the depths of the abyss, you remember: 41 is the answer to the ultimate question of life, the universe, and everything. No, not 42. 41. Read Part 2: The 41th Hour Read Part 3: The Paradoxical 41