Tucked away in my mother's house, somewhere in the room that used to be mine, is a Nintendo GameCube that's not mine. My own GameCube is God-knows-where—languishing on some GameStop warehouse shelf, or in someone's garage, buried beneath an electric drill after an impulsive used-game purchase in the late 2000s. But this other GameCube, the one that's there now? I have no idea how it got into my room.

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