Signs are strange things, she notes. 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 story to slip into. But she’s smartly mastered this; it’s an easy one she’ll never really forget.

He takes a steady seat beside the judge’s bench. All spots and a smile, Cheshire purrs, pleased. “What do you know about the day of the twelves?” the cat says, shadowy edges looming over the witness stand.

“Nothing,” he says as he chews.

“Nothing whatever?” persists the cat.

“Nothing whatever,” he says with a swallow. If he’d thought once, he would’ve wondered whether growing big and tall took longer than shrinking to a size so short and small. Sometimes forever is just one second. Four seconds or more — he’s in a bit of a hurry. 

“Curiouser and curiouser!” The cat turns its back, purple tail on purple walls swaying with curving swings. “What about the dirty dishes at tea time?”

“Look again, Cheshire-Puss. Those cups are as clean as can be!” he insists. 

The curiousest of sensations keep him snug on the witness stand. He’s not growing smaller, but taller! Just across the room, a mirror shows his new boon. How regrettable to be trialled so soon. He’s only just become a wonder; there are much wheres left to discover. 

“What about the white rose tree?” the cat asks impatiently. Time is only on leave till to-day’s end. Confessions such as these cannot be gotten with ease. 

“Planted for dear rabbit, you see.” He thinks the cat can’t help but agree. 

“This proves your guilt, of course,” says the cat: “so out with—”

“It doesn’t prove anything of the sort!” she yells so loudly she reaches his tall ears. “Why, this trial is just your game of sport!”

“Silence!” the cat calls, and chandeliers fall. Its shadow stretches. On watchful red eyes a dim light catches. “Sentence first — verdict afterwards.” 

“Stuff and nonsense!” he says, looking for the right moment to take flight. “Having a sentence before the verdict!”

“The nonsensest!” she says, still out of sight.

“Hold your heart!” says the cat, turning all the hues of purple he’d really forgotten. 

“He won’t!” she pleads for him with him. Of all rabbits to follow! Whos and wheres couldn’t compare to her wonderful care. To know only his box and what’s in it, Lacie is a pitiable soul, indeed.

“Out with his heart!” the cat growls from its lowest gut. 

Nearly two miles high, he makes his move. Grabbing his dear’s ears, he runs for the courtroom’s large door — made for his appropriately-sized who. The hungry Cheshire crawls inside the walls, gaining quick. 

He’s all the quicker to the door. Four seconds or more! But he’s shrinking fast. His dream struggles to last. He wants adventure, excitement, and uncertainty — and he wants to learn how to swim.

Happy summer days weren’t so far away. School would become exciting with his reimagined perspective. His mother would ask where he got his new umbrella. Reality’s vast ocean holds more wonder than any boy’s peanut-box. So as the door closes shut behind he and she, he chooses.

“Dear rabbit, I—” And he flatlines. For, you see, it’s a matter of course! Butter a biscuit, pocket a bonbon, sip some tea, and dwell on this riddle with me.

“Kyungsoo Do. Time of death: 12:12pm. December 12th,” a doctor recites. 12:12:12:12. She’s quite smart about it. Not just any no-good liar can tell such a curious story. Sweet dreams are rarely what they seem. 

Hospitals are filled with signs. Specialists blame coincidental happenstance for their fascinating chain of heart attack patients — a death every year on December 12th, 12:12pm. Lady Luck has clearly gone mad to make their luck so bad. Dream-Weavers thrive in the fantasies their victims’ minds contrive.

Dressed in wondrous white, a nurse stands over Kyungsoo Do’s pallid, 24-year-old body. Cystic Fibrosis: medical professionals across the board diagnosed twelve years prior. Saving a cat from a hit-and-run earned him a collapsed lung. His surgery was named a success; he enjoyed ambiguity best.

“Oh, how I wonder where my wonder went,” she purrs affectionately. Light askew, her shadow grew along the walls. With dark spots and a devious grin, her red eyes grow wide. She turns!

“Nurse O’Haire, you’re late! The Chief’ll ask for your head this time,” someone says from outside this white box. 

“It’s been fun, but I’ve got to run!” And as his dear rabbit hops off, she charmingly recites this uneven rhyme:

“                      It’s
every                wonder 
for themselves  on the day of the
twelves. It creeps to find its mouse in 
the walls of every house. Hush. Say 
the words, and you'll be thirds. 
Pleading hearts in beating 
chests taste 
best.
”