Now you’re annoyed again. “Then why didn’t you tell me that up front? If this Axiom of Choice is simply one of the rules, why are we even discussing it?”
Kerry leans forward, one elbow skidding almost into a puddle of spilled coffee. “It’s not one of the rules. Not one of the most basic, defining ones, anyway. You can build up a complete, self-consistent system of mathematics that doesn’t include the Axiom of Choice. If you add it in, you end up with a slightly different system. One that includes a lot of new, interesting results, most of which feel right. So most mathematicians are fine with proofs that depend on the Axiom of Choice.”
You glance at your watch. You’ll both be late for class if you don’t pick up your trays and get going. But a corner of Kerry’s argument looks loose to you.
“So,” you say, “you can do math either with this axiom or without it?”
“Right.” Kerry stands up.
You remain in your seat. “Then, each mathematician has to choose whether or not to use the Axiom of Choice.”
Kerry pauses and stares at you.
And then, slowly, Kerry nods, and slides the two trays in your direction. As if presenting you an award.
“I guess,” says Kerry, “that says something about the rules of the higher system. The one in which we live.”
If you stack both trays and carry them away, go to section 147.
If you push back Kerry’s tray and grumble about hypocritical mathematicians, go to section 170.
That night, after you get under the covers, Kerry approaches the bed, naked.
“Tonight,” says Kerry, “I want you to lie completely still. Got it? Now pay attention. Here’s my hand. And here’s my mouth. And here—” Kerry takes a step back, so you can get a really good look, “—is the rest of me.”
Kerry draws out the moment.
“Choose.”
If
“Okay, that’s ten minutes.”
You open your eyes to a circle of people sitting in plastic chairs, in a bright room with pale blue walls.
“So,” says the guy with shoes. “Who wants to share something from their experience?”
If after a few seconds you raise your hand, go to section 511.
If it strikes you that group is bullshit, go to section 550.
One of the counselors is standing in your room, looking Very Serious.
“We can’t do this without you,” she says. She’s in her forties, you guess, her dark hair braided and wrapped up on top of her head. You’ve decided that the lilt in her voice comes from Jamaica.
You lie completely still.
She sighs. “You only get to keep your bed if you’re an active participant in ward activities. Do you understand me? If you’re going to stay here, then you have to get yourself up and out of this room, and interact with the others.”
She waits for you to respond. As if it matters what you might say.
Again she sighs. “At least come to the common room for lunch.”
If the idea of lunch finally gives you a reason to get out of bed, go to section 557.
If you’re finally recognizing that you’re not the one making the decisions in your life, go to section 601.
Somebody has started a fire with some old campaign signs from a dumpster, and you join the others huddling around it. The bridge’s supports block most of the wind, and after a while, for the first time today, you stop shivering.
“Nice hat,” says a big guy, meaningfully.
Somebody at the hospital gave it to you when they kicked you out. It’s the warmest thing you’re wearing, stuffed with fleece, and with furry earflaps.
If you kick the guy in the nuts and run, go to section 615.
If you stand there waiting to see what the higher system is going to make you do next, go to section 620.
You’re standing in line at the mission, leaning against the counter to take some weight off your feet. A lady asks whether you’d like brown sugar on your oatmeal.
If you shake your head and keep shuffling down the line, go to section 634.
If you stand there, waiting, until finally somebody drops a clump of brown sugar onto your oatmeal and shoves you ahead, go to section 652.
Your sign isn’t working at all today. You glance down to your lap and notice that you’re holding the sign with your good hand. Dumb.
A brown leather wallet drops onto the cracked sidewalk, right in front of you. The guy who must have dropped it is sauntering away, oblivious, eating one of those big pretzels.
Even without leaning closer, you can see a lot of bills in there. Probably cards, too—you could maybe sell those cards.
If you pick up the wallet and stick it inside your coat, go to section 664.
If you just sit there, and eventually somebody else notices the wallet and grabs it, go to section 701.
The sky is full of fluffy clouds today. You’ve got a good view, except for some tree branches. You must have slept on a park bench last night, since that’s where you find yourself now. You can’t recall the details, though.
If you’re just going to lie there all day, go to section 701.
If eventually you get so bored that you sit up, go to section 702.
At first it’s really early in the morning and you’ve got this part of the park to yourself. But soon a thickening parade of office workers marches past your bench. Some of them glance your way for a second, and then lift their coffee or their phone to block the view.
If you ask one of them what they think they’re staring at, go to section 708.
If all you do is wait to see what’s going to happen next, go to section 721.
There aren’t as many office workers now, but between the kids and the joggers and the drunks there’s still a sort of parade.
If you lie back down on the bench, go to section 724.
If your fist punches somebody in the shoulder for no reason, go to section 801.
“Ow!” says the woman who had just sat herself beside you on the bench. “What was that for?”
You’re staring at your fist.
“No reason,” you say.
“Yeah?” She squints at you for a few seconds.
Then she punches your arm. Pretty hard, actually.
“Hey!”
“So,” she says, “if we’re done with that, I have a proposition for you.”
You give her a closer look. Mid-thirties. Dressed like a lot of women you used to know, in a long crinkly black skirt and a brightly striped top from Peru or Mexico or someplace like that. Hair falling in waves to the base of her neck.
Redhead.
She continues, “Community House—maybe you’ve heard of us? One of our residents got himself kicked out last night, so this is your lucky day. You get a bedroom to yourself, and three meals. Only two rules: You don’t do anything illegal in the house, and you don’t piss off everybody else.”
You narrow your eyes. “So why are you choosing me?”
She nods toward your still-clenched fist.