Part 32 (2/2)
”A-HA!” Miles shouted victoriously.
He was holding the remains of the chair in midair.
Behind the mirror, there was a plain wall.
The last pieces fell with a jangle.
”Oh,” Miles said. He looked at us. ”Oops.”
Sarah and I exchanged glances.
”Oops?”
”Oops.”
”You just killed the mirror.”
”I said oops.”
Sarah scrunched her face into a perfect Miles impression. ”It's the cla.s.sic triad,” she lectured, pretending to push a pair of gla.s.ses up the bridge of her nose.
”p.i.s.s off,” Miles said.
Sarah and I looked at each other and burst out laughing.
”It would've been cool,” Miles mumbled. His face was turning bright red. ”Come on--if there was a tunnel or something behind the mirror? That would have been awesome. What the h.e.l.l do you know anyway . . . think you're some kind of genius, just 'cause you played with dolls in the other room . . .”
He stomped off to the far corner of the room and plopped in a chair, sulking.
We nearly doubled over, laughing.
Finally, I wiped my eyes and walked the room.
On the bookshelf, I found a model s.h.i.+p, the kind you'd see inside a gla.s.s bottle, but larger.
”Hey Miles,” I said. ”Mind if I look at this, or did you want to smash it first?”
”Screw you.”
I took the s.h.i.+p off its base and turned it over.
”Weird.”
On both sides, several planks were missing, like the smile of a very bad boxer.
I grinned.
I took the boat to the table under the broken mirror. I grabbed a plank of wood from the gla.s.s bowl and held it up to the boat. It was a perfect fit.
Sarah clapped.
Every plank snapped into place, not one to spare. The boat looked whole again, except that the old s.h.i.+p was made of pale balsa wood; the new pieces were cherry brown. But the problem was cosmetic--the boat felt perfect, balanced and new.
”Cool.”
”I want to put it in the water,” Sarah said.
”Well obviously,” Miles mumbled from his corner. He still wasn't making eye contact.
”Let's do it,” I said.
”You would,” Miles muttered.
”Could you grow up, please?” Sarah said. ”If you know something, say it.”
”It's the s.h.i.+p of Theseus, clearly,” Miles said.
”The s.h.i.+p of what?”
”Theseus. It's a paradox. An ancient puzzle.”
”Oh for G.o.d's sake. Enlighten us.”
”The s.h.i.+p of Theseus was getting worn out, right? But they kept it going by replacing planks. Take an old plank out, put a new one in. So the question is, when does it stop being the s.h.i.+p of Theseus?”
”I don't get it.”
”If you replace one plank, is it still the s.h.i.+p of Theseus?”
”Of course.”
”What if you replace half the planks? Is it still the s.h.i.+p of Theseus?”
”Yes.”
”What if you replace all the planks?”
”Sure.”
”Okay, now say someone picks up all the discarded planks and builds a second boat. Which one is the s.h.i.+p of Theseus?”
Sarah and I answered at the same time.
<script>