Signs are strange things, he decides. Not a baseless decision but one based on fact. Experiences like this one. Where he faces an array of signs. Different colors and different sizes. Arrows labeled “Over Here, Yonder There, Better Here, Betterest There” point their different colors and different sizes in different directions. It’s all very strange to pick just one. 

Say he chooses. Can he come back and choose again? A third, a fourth, a fifth time. No. No, he was told he can only choose one — who told him?

It’s while he’s attempting to answer this question that she poses another: “What sign would you trust if you must?” 

This presents an entirely different problem! The differentest! Say he chooses. How does he know he can trust his choice? Nevermind choosing again. The first choice is the most important — who told him this?

“I’m afraid I cannot trust myself in solving such a conundrum!” he shrieks in fear. Frightening! Being unable to trust oneself is truly frightening! But wait, he has an idea. A little nugget roughly polished. “What sign do you suppose I should follow?

“That depends a good deal on where you want to get to.” She grins wide and white. The young lady is positively charming with her uneven rhymes. “Here, there, somewhere is better than standing still. Going nowhere of your own free will!” 

“Betterest!”

“Quite!” 

So he’ll chose. He must. And he won’t come back. But, “if the sign should betray my trust?”

“A sign that lies will hang you out to dry!” She recoils in shock. His question strikes stars into her eyes. Twinkling like fireflies in the mountain air. An appropriate simile, though he can only wonder at its meaning.

“Do you think truth-telling signs look like twinkling fireflies in the mountain air?” he asks. The image is absent but the words are pleasing on his lips. Truth-telling signs sound like fine things, indeed. 

“Deary me, I don’t know. Do they glow? Can a sign know?” she asks back. This cyclical conversation continues a third, a fourth, a fifth time. Standing still. Going nowhere out of his own free will. 

“I cannot ask a sign if I should trust it; any no-good liar can make a sign.” He is convinced by his sound logic. Sign-associated decisions based on fact are impossible. Signs are not strange things at all, he undecides. 

“Any sign believed to be truer could be made by a wrongdoer!” She gasps. At what? Clearly he’s come to terms with his inability to trust and be trusted. He’ll stand and he’ll stand and he’ll stand but she gasped. What sign would she trust if she must?

“I’ll follow you,” he says and he watches. Heart beating in his chest. Thumping. Beeping. Peeping through his clenched throat to catch the golden idea she’s made gleam.

“What if I’m a sign, too? Whatever shall you do?”

“You’re lying.” He’s lying. They’re lying? And smiling. So he chooses. Not because he must but because he trusts. 

Signs can take up so much time. The first choice is the most important. Different colors and different sizes point in one direction: Wonderland. He had ignored her ears before. 

“We’re late. We’re late for a very important date! No time to say hello, goodbye!” She taps her toes, and there she goes. Down the rabbit hole. 

He gives chase with haste, never considering how in the world he was to get out again. The white rabbit is a creature of habit. All the better — he’d never forget her. But sweet dreams are rarely what they seem.