1.3.2 | Ovo

I woke up with a bruise on my palm shaped like a question mark.

That was the first night. The second night, I dreamed of a bridge collapsing in a city I’d never visited. The third night, a woman’s voice gave me the winning lottery numbers for a drawing that wouldn’t happen for another eight months. The fourth night, I dreamed of my own funeral. The casket was closed. No one cried. Someone had placed a single bruised plum on the lid. ovo 1.3.2

The thing about Ovo was that it didn’t turn on. Not with switches, not with prayers, not with the cursed adapter the previous owner had melted into its port. For three weeks it sat on my kitchen table, a paperweight with delusions of grandeur. Then, on a Thursday, at 3:13 AM—I checked the clock—it lit up from the inside. I woke up with a bruise on my

I bought it for seventeen dollars and a broken watch. The third night, a woman’s voice gave me

I put my hand on its shell.