I spent the next twenty minutes staring at the second kitchen table. It was mocking me. It sat there with its four sturdy legs and its polished oak surface, a literal physical impossibility anchored to my linoleum. I tried to push it, hoping it might slide through the floor or pop like a soap bubble, but it was solid. It was heavy. It was undeniably there.
"I have to go to work," I whispered to the twin tables. "I have a meeting about the Q3 logistics at nine. I can't tell my boss I'm late because I accidentally birthed a piece of furniture."
The problem wasn't just the table. The problem was me.
Every time I touched something for more than a second, that static tingle would crawl up my arm like a colony of over-caffeinated ants. I reached for the kettle to make tea, and—pop—I was holding two kettles. One was hot, the other was a tepid, half-formed ghost of a kettle that began to turn grey and translucent as soon as I let go.
I tried to put on my shoes. By the time I'd tied the laces on my right sneaker, I had three sneakers on my right foot. It felt like wearing a loaf of bread. I kicked the extras off, watching them flicker and fade into the carpet like dying light bulbs.
"Think, Arthur. Think," I paced the kitchen, stepping carefully around the extra table. "If I touch it, it copies. It's a skin-contact thing. A biological short-circuit."
I looked at my hands. They were the enemies. Rogue agents. If I went to the office like this, I'd be leaving a trail of duplicate staplers, keyboards, and—God forbid—duplicate coffee mugs across the entire building.
I needed a buffer. A firewall for my fingertips.
I ran to the hall closet, rummaging through the winter gear. Way in the back, buried under a moth-eaten scarf, I found them: my grandfather's old driving gloves. They were thick, cracked brown leather, smelling faintly of cedar and 1950s masculinity. I pulled them on. They fit tight, like a second, much tougher skin.
I walked back into the kitchen and eyed a ceramic mug with suspicion. I reached out. My heart was a drum solo in my chest. I gripped the mug.
One second. Five seconds. Ten.
No tingle. No static. No phantom mug budding off the side like a ceramic tumor.
"Yes!" I punched the air. "Leather. The universal 'cancel' button."
Stepping outside felt like walking onto a landmine. I was wearing a light windbreaker and heavy, vintage leather gloves in the middle of a balmy Tuesday morning. I looked like a hitman who had forgotten the rest of his outfit.
I approached my car, my hand hovering over the door handle. Please don't double the car, I prayed. The insurance alone would be a nightmare.
The leather did its job. No extra handles appeared. I sat in the driver's seat, gripping the wheel with a white-knuckled intensity. Everything was fine. I was just a normal guy, with a normal car, and a totally normal house that currently contained two identical dining tables.
I pulled out of the driveway, feeling a surge of misplaced confidence. I could handle this. I'd go to work, keep the gloves on, tell everyone I had a sudden, localized case of eczema, and figure out how to "un-photocopy" my life after five o'clock.
I stopped at a red light. To my left, a sleek black sedan with tinted windows pulled up. I didn't think much of it until I noticed the license plate: a series of zeroes and a small, gold crest I didn't recognize.
I looked forward, but my gloved hand shifted on the gear stick. For a split second, the leather slid up my wrist, exposing a tiny patch of skin.
The tingle roared.
Clack-clack-clack.
My gear stick didn't double—the car's dashboard did. A second, ghostly speedometer blossomed out of the plastic, overlapping the first one. It flickered wildly.
The man in the black sedan turned his head toward me. Through the tint, I could feel a pair of eyes narrowing, analyzing the shimmering, glitching plastic inside my cabin. He didn't look like a commuter. He looked like a hunter.
The light turned green. I floored it, the ghostly dashboard evaporating in my rearview mirror, but the black sedan didn't accelerate. It just stayed there, watching me go, a silent hunter that had just caught the scent of something impossible.