The Moral Compass

I hold the compass flat in the palm of my hand, watching the needle spin madly.
The symbols glow a deep red.
“It’s broken,” I tell the salesman.
“No, it isn’t,” he says. “You are. Your moral compass is out of whack.”
The salesman snickers at me, his crooked smile wants me to punch it.
So I do. Many times.
As the salesman lays on the floor, I look at the compass.
The black end of the needle points at my heart.
“It’s working again.” I say, snap the lid shut, and step over the salesman out of the store.