The mathematics of quantum theory associates each quantum object with a wavefunction that appears in the Schrödinger equation and gives the probability of finding it in any given state.
Dodgson, Dead or Alive
“It’s a lot to think about,” declared Alice, and two cats nodded in simultaneous agreement: the British feline known historically as Cheshire and the other allegedly belonging to old Schrodinger.
Alice, looking up from her science book, gave them a piercing gaze. “Does either of you know the nature of property? Who—or is it whom? —it belongs to?
Neither cat answered.
“Or is property merely a word, empirically meaningless?”
Frustrated, Alice stomped off, checking her Fitbit to see if it was time for Elevenses and wondering, what is Eleven when it’s at home?
“I’m still Eleven, even here,” replied (somewhat crossly) a chestnut-haired girl about Alice’s age who sprang up as if magically. “And who invited you to have tea with me?”
“Forgive me,” said Alice. “It must be a case of mistaken identity, for I thought I had met you before under the cognomen of just plain Jane.”
“It’s all right,” said the other girl. “I’ve heard stranger things.” She lifted an antique china teapot invitingly, and asked, “May I pour you some tea?” Before she could get a drop of Darjeeling into a cup, however, Eleven—or Jane, as it may be—vanished into air. I almost said “thin air,” but, indeed, I don’t know if it was thin or fat or just right.
Alice opened her mouth to speak but before she could get a word out, Eleven reappeared and resumed pouring as if she’d never left. “Can you do that at will?” the former inquired politely, hiding her distress at being offered neither sugar, milk nor lemon.
“Do what?” asked the other.
“Appear and disappear at will,” said Alice, elaborating: “Do you have free will?”
“Free Will?” demanded Eleven? “Who says my brother is tied up? Why, he was in the study the last time I looked. Would you like some proof?”
“Oh, tea will be fine. I never take alcohol,” Alice replied sweetly, hoping her dulcet tones might remind her hostess that the sugar bowl, too, had disappeared.
Ignoring her question, the other girl (Jane, I think, this time) vanished again, returning swiftly to wail, “Oh dear, my brother is missing! How ever did you know?”
“By reputation,” replied Alice, mysteriously, and quickly added, “But I’ve always heard that he’s a feyn man.” (She made no reference to this odd lapse into a broad Gaelic brogue.)
Just as well, for Jane disappeared again but shortly reappeared, explaining, “It’s all down to the vanishing cream, I’m afraid. I shall have to stop using it.”
“But why did you ever begin? Your complexion is perfection.” Here, Alice winked at her own compliment.
“Well, of course, I take every precaution,” said Jane. “No winking, no frowning whatsoever and, of course, the vanishing cream. A wrinkle in time saves nine, you know.” And she was off again.
“It’s getting dark, so I guess I’ll disappear too,” murmured Alice, to herself. “I do hope it’s not going to be another stormy night. Fair or foul, it’s STILL a lot to think about.”