“Look here,” he said. “This is where my dad keeps the mechanical fingers.” And inside the drawer were many mechanical fingers, tied in bundles with rubber bands.

“How did he make them?”

“A fellow taught him how,”

“Oh,” I said. They looked to be quite intricate little fingers with wheels and hinges in the most surprising of places. But I didn’t have any questions about them and found myself staring out into his expansive and manicured lawn.

“But nobody knows,” he said, “about the fellow. Anyway,” he said, “it’s my dad who makes fingers and that’s how the world is.” I expected he knew a lot about the world. The tiling in his kitchen was so hard and shiny. Upstairs his mother grunted along with the videos.

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