“What’s that?” I ask, pointing to the metal cylinder in her hand.
“It’s a moral compass,” she replies. “Here, look.”
The needle wobbles when she moves, settling to always aim at her.
“See, pointing at me. Means I am telling the truth.”
“And what’s that?” I point to a small metal bar, nestling between the compass and her hand.
“Ah,” she says, glancing away, her voice quiet. “That’s the…calibrator.”
She fumbles, the calibrator dropping, needle swinging in circles.
“I always tell the truth,” she says, resolute, face unwavering. She replaces the calibrator and the compass points back to her. “See?”