The Gonzometer

The window is open. A me sits on my bed. Moonlight waves my curtains over her face. My face. Anne spells her name with an E, like her scar. “Recap. You shift soon. Dunno how. I’m lucky, windows. Cuts, bandages, but controlled.”

“You’re not me, right?”

“Oh! You need this.” Like a surgeon removing a kid’s sore tonsils, she pulls out a brass compass from her bag. “It’s a gonzometer.”

I move my blanket and lean in. The bedframe never creaked before. Huh. I take the device and examine the glass lens. Clacking iron ball bearings center on an etched plate. One refuses to budge from the right.

“What’s it do?”

“Gonzometry. Remember two hours in the bathroom? Seeing how high you could count? Mom thought you fell in tub. Kicked in door.”

“What does that–”

“Infinity what. No uni in the verse. Branch front back– gonzometer. Measures how gonzo this place is. Compared to home.”

“What do you mean–?”

I finish the question in an empty room. I see a me open the door while brushing her teeth. She sees a her in her bed.

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