Turnwick

She would take a small stair of blocks — three cubes climbing a step — and roll it onto its side, then tip it onto its back, then stand it on its end. Every time she did, another builder in the workshop would gasp and shout, "You made a new shape!"

"I did not," Turnwick would say, patient and a little tickled. "It's the same stair. It's just facing a new way."

They never believed her at first. A stair lying down really does look different from a stair standing up. So Turnwick learned to prove it. She would set the standing stair beside the lying-down one, and then — slowly, so everyone could watch — she would turn the lying one, tip and roll and tip again, until it dropped exactly onto the standing one. Cube for cube. Not one block off.

"See?" she'd say. "If I can turn this one until it lands right on top of that one, they were never two shapes. They were one shape wearing two poses."

One rainy afternoon a nervous new builder brought Turnwick a knobbly lump of eight cubes. "I built this yesterday and today it looks all wrong. I think I broke it in my bag."

Turnwick did not laugh. She turned the lump this way, that way, tipping it gently, feeling for where it wanted to sit. And there — a quarter-turn to the left and a tip forward — it settled into exactly the shape the builder remembered, every knob in its old place.