"What do you mean, which one?"



"Don't play dumb Bina. Which one of you are you?"

Well at least she certainly has the ridiculous sentence structure of this situation down.



"All right. How many of us have you met?"

"Oh I meet all of you. That first time, in my office," she says. "Of course, I have no idea what is going on, and you're all still very similar at that point. It's only later that things… diverge, get complicated."

"And later? When things were complicated?"

"Only three."

That makes sense. I remember (I think) overhearing their conversation in a definitely-not-an-abandoned-bakery when I was twelve.

"I'm not her."

"Her who?"

OK, maybe she doesn't have a grasp on the sentence structure.

"Three. I'm not her."

"What?"



"The third one, of me, I'm not her."

This conversation seems to have gotten away from both of us.

"Err… look," I say, "I think we've missed a step somewhere, what did you -

"Ooooh… you thought I meant - no no no. I meant I'd met three different versions of you. Not that I'd only met the one who called herself 'Three'."

"Ah," that makes more sense.

"Though she was one of them. The three I've met. The uh… the third one. She was the first, the first I met, after I - Bina, this calling yourselves numbers thing is very confusing."