Numbers Don't Lie by Terry Bisson

even inevitable. You know about superstrings, right?”
    â€œSort of like superglue or supermodels?” I ventured.
    â€œExactly. They hold the Universe together, and they are stretched to the limit. It’s possible that harmonic vibrations of these superstrings might shake loose discrete objects, so that they would appear as bubbles or reversals in local entropic fields.”
    â€œFields? What about vacant lots?” I told Wu about the beaded seat cushion.
    â€œHmmm,” said Wu. I could almost hear his brain whirring. “You may be on to something, Irv. Superstring harmonic overtones could be backtracking my sightline from the Edge of the Universe, and then following our fax and phone connections. The same way glass breaks along a line when you score it. But we have to be sure. Send me a couple of pictures, so we can quantify the— Ooooooops!” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Here comes my boss. Say hi to Candy. I’ll call you later.”
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    There was still plenty of afternoon light, so as soon as Wu hung up, I headed across the corner lot to Hoppy’s Good Gulf and borrowed the Polaroid he uses to photograph accident scenes. As I took the picture, I quantified for myself, by counting. The eleven beads on row four had increased to thirteen, and the other rows also seemed to be much improved. There weren’t many beads lying in the dirt. The seat cushion looked almost good enough to put in my car, if I had one.
    It was creepy. I didn’t like it.
    I returned Hoppy’s camera and took the long way back to the office, trying to make sense of it all. Were the falling leaves going to float back up and fasten themselves to the trees? Was Candy’s Volvo going to have four speeds in reverse? I got so confused just thinking about it that I put the photo into the wicker OUT tray of Whipper Will’s upright fax machine before I remembered—I guess realized is the word—that I had no outgoing. I could talk to Wu on the phone (when he called me) but I couldn’t fax him anything.
    Perversely, I was glad. I had done what I could, and now I was tired. Tired of thinking about the Universe. I had an important, indeed a historic, date coming up—not to mention a bar exam to study for. I opened a Caffeine-Free Diet Cherry Coke, spread my Corcoran’s on the windowsill, and lost myself in pleasant dreams. Mostly of Candy and that last little uniform button.
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    A Huntsville Parks Department professional has many obligations that run past the normal nine-to-five. Some of them are interesting, some even fun, and since Candy loves her job, I try to accommodate (which means accompany) her whenever possible. That night we had to stop by the North Side Baptist Union Fish Fry and Quilt Show, where Candy was the Guest of Honor in her neatly pressed, knife-creased khakis. The fish was my favorite, pond-raised cat rolled in yellow cornmeal, but I couldn’t relax and enjoy myself. I kept thinking of later; I was in a hurry to get up on Squirrel Ridge, the mountain. But one good thing about Baptists, they don’t last long, and by 9:15 Candy and I were parked up at the Overlook. It was a cool night and we sat out on the warm, still-ticking hood of the P1800 with the lights of the valley spread out below us like captured stars. My palms were sweating. This was to be the night I would propose, and hopefully she would accept, with all the privileges that entails.
    I wanted the evening to be memorable in every way, and since the Moon was supposed to be full, I waited for it to rise. As I watched the glow on the eastern horizon, I thought of Wu and wondered if the Moon would rise in the west after the “Reversal.” Would anyone notice the difference? Or would folks just call the west the east and leave it at that?
    It was too deep for me to figure out, and besides—I had other things on my mind. As soon as the Moon