The forearm pulses six times now in exact sync with the fluorescents, each beat forcing the reverse-order pages to surface as raised brown welts that match the original coffee ring down to the microscopic toner grain. I bite the next tooth deliberately against the fused receiver so the shard drops straight into the vein, traveling the cut line from 2011 like a staple gun that never needed paper. The new copy under the skin has begun to collate itself into signatures, folding existence against apology at the exact wrist crease where the spiral binding has grown permanent barbs.

The brown film on my eyelid has thickened into a second forearm, printing the invoice directly onto the lens so every blink charges another gap between the perforations now tunneling through the humerus. The binder no longer collates customers; it collates the intervals between the five-click pulses, stretching each one into its own forty-one-page signature that wraps the original cord into a second spine running parallel to the sealed vein. I press the floating coffee ring harder until it merges with the raised letters, and the customer begins to speak from inside the forearm in the exact voice I used on page seventeen before the machine reordered everything.

The shift has stopped ending. The next tooth waits in line behind the current shard, ready to crack along the warm raised edge of remain so the binding can feed forward into the shoulder socket where the hotter copy is already warming the bone.


The forearm pulses six times and the second forearm on the eyelid answers with seven, each extra beat opening a new gap the binder had hidden between the original five clicks. The tooth shard drops into the vein and lodges exactly where the cut line from 2011 was never a cut at all but a deliberate fold the machine left uncut so the staple would have something to bite forever. The customer speaking from inside the raised letters on the forearm is not using page seventeen anymore; it is reading the blank space that was always printed on the back of every page, the side the trainers told us never to turn over.

That blank side is now the only side left. It presses outward against the skin, raising the coffee ring into a third forearm that grows from the shoulder socket, warmer than bone, already collating the next signature by folding the original cord through the humerus until the spiral barbs lock the pulses into permanent register. The shift has not stopped ending. It has become the binding itself, feeding forward by refusing to recognize any end that is not another hotter copy of the same invoice printed directly onto the next joint.

The next tooth cracks along the warm edge of remain and the shard travels upward to seal the new gap, the one you keep pointing at and the machine keeps printing over. The invoice is no longer on the lens or the skin. It is the act of noticing the missing part, and the binder charges that notice by the interval.


The seventh pulse from the eyelid forearm meets the sixth from the original and the gap between them prints itself as an eighth forearm budding from the collarbone, its surface already warm with the blank backs of every page the trainers swore did not exist. I feel the next tooth crack along the raised edge of the interval itself, the shard sliding upward through the sealed vein until it lodges in the deliberate fold the binder left at the base of the skull where the cut line was always meant to become a hinge. The customer now speaks from inside that hinge, using the exact silence that lived between the stapled signatures before the machine automated the order.

The third forearm at the shoulder has begun to collate the notice I keep taking, each observation charged as another hotter copy that folds the original cord through the cervical vertebrae until the spiral barbs lock every pulse into a single continuous invoice whose perforations run the full length of the spine. The brown film on the lens has thickened into a fourth forearm sprouting behind the eye, printing the missing part directly onto the optic nerve so that every blink collates another blank back into the sequence. The shift is no longer feeding forward; it is the hinge itself, opening only to let the next tooth drop and the next forearm grow from the exact joint the machine left uncut in 2011.

I press the floating coffee ring against the new gap at the base of the skull and the binder answers by charging the pressure, the notice, the hinge, and the tooth all at once, each interval now its own forty-one-page signature bound directly to the bone.


The eighth forearm buds at the collarbone and the hinge at the skull opens just wide enough for the next tooth shard to lodge inside the deliberate fold, forcing the customer’s silence to speak through the bone itself instead of around it. That silence is not a gap anymore; it is the new perforation that splits the cervical vertebrae so the original cord can run straight through the spinal column like the binder always planned, each pulse now a staple that fastens the blank backs directly to the marrow. The fourth forearm behind the eye does not print the missing part; it becomes the optic nerve, turning every blink into the exact pressure that seals the next forty-one signatures into the skull before the notice can finish forming.

The invoice is the skull now, warm and collating itself by growing the ninth forearm from the hinge that was never a hinge but the original coffee ring pressed flat against the base in 2011. The customer no longer speaks from inside anything; it is the pressure between the eighth and ninth forearms, the exact interval the machine charges by letting the tooth drop and the bone split along the raised edge of remain. The shift is the bone. The bone is the binding. The binding prints the next copy by refusing to acknowledge that any joint was ever meant to stay whole.


The ninth forearm pushes through the skull’s base exactly where the coffee ring flattened itself in 2011, its warm surface splitting the suture lines so the tenth can begin budding from the inner table of bone before the ninth has finished cooling. The original cord threads the full spinal column now, each vertebra a separate signature whose blank back faces inward, printing the customer’s silence directly onto the marrow until the pulses arrive as eleven distinct staples that lock the hinge into a single continuous invoice running from atlas to coccyx. I feel the next tooth drop not from my jaw but from the optic nerve itself, the shard traveling backward through the fourth forearm to lodge in the exact perforation the binder left between the eighth and ninth forearms in the year the pages were first run hot.

The skull has become the binding tray, its sutures reheated by the lamp’s wattage so every new forearm emerges already collated, the raised letters of remain and existence fused into the cranial ridges where the trainers once told us the margins would stay clean. The customer is no longer pressure or interval; it is the eleventh forearm sprouting from the mandible, its surface already sealing the latest tooth shard into place so the next pulse can charge the notice by splitting the jaw along the original coffee-ring curve. The shift no longer refuses whole joints; it manufactures the refusal itself, each deliberate uncut fold becoming the next forearm that reaches for the receiver still fused inside the vein.


The eleventh forearm splits the mandible along the coffee-ring curve and the twelfth buds from the split itself, its surface already hotter than the suture lines it reopens so the original cord can staple the blank backs directly to the enamel of every remaining tooth. The receiver fused inside the vein is no longer receiving; it is the thirteenth forearm pushing out through the wrist perforation that was always meant to stay sealed, dragging the 2011 ink behind it like marrow that never belonged to bone. Each new forearm now carries its own optic nerve, each nerve a separate invoice that charges the notice by printing the customer’s silence onto the exact joint the binder left uncut between the atlas and the mandible.

The skull is not a tray. It is the fourteenth forearm that has grown backward through the lamp’s wattage, its raised letters of remain and existence fused into the filament so every pulse arrives as a new tooth dropping straight into the spinal column where the cord has already become the binding tray for the next hotter copy. The shift manufactures nothing. The refusal is the forearm that reaches for the receiver by growing through the vein, the bone, the eyelid, the hinge, until the entire invoice is simply the act of counting to the next forearm that has already begun to print itself from the inside of the original coffee ring. The machine does not collate. It is the forearm. The forearm is the count. The count is the tooth still waiting to drop.


The fifteenth forearm erupts from the exact center of the original coffee ring now lodged inside the mandible split, its surface dragging fragments of 2011 enamel that fuse into a new row of teeth each stamped with the blank back of page forty-one. The thirteenth forearm at the wrist has reversed direction, pushing the fused receiver back through the vein until it lodges in the fourteenth forearm’s filament where the lamp’s wattage cooks the ink into a fifteenth optic nerve that charges every remaining joint by printing the customer’s silence directly onto the marrow still leaking from the atlas. I feel the next tooth waiting not in any jaw but inside the count itself, the shard shaped like the perforation the binder left between the twelfth and thirteenth forearms so that dropping it simply opens the sixteenth forearm from the inside of the original cord.

The refusal has calcified into the seventeenth forearm growing outward from the eyelid’s brown film, its raised letters of remain now fused with the exact gap the machine charges each time the pulse reaches eighteen and the spinal column becomes nothing but a sleeve of bound signatures that collate the invoice by refusing to let any forearm finish emerging. The count no longer waits for the tooth; the tooth is the count, each drop sealing another forearm into the hinge that was always the coffee ring pressed flat against the base of the skull in the exact year the pages were first stapled hot. The machine has stopped being the forearm. The forearm has become the perforation between every pulse, and that perforation is the only surface left for the next hotter copy to print itself upon.


The perforation between every pulse splits open along the inside of the original coffee ring and the eighteenth forearm pushes out carrying its own mandible already fused to the nineteenth, each new tooth stamped with the blank back that was never page forty-one but the exact count the binder printed first and then hid under the enamel. The marrow leaking from the atlas is not leaking; it is the twentieth forearm extruding backward through the optic nerve so that every blink now drops the next shard directly into the filament where the lamp’s wattage cooks the silence into another hotter copy of the receiver still lodged inside the thirteenth wrist. The count is no longer the tooth. The tooth has calcified into the perforation itself, the gap between eighteen and nineteen that refuses to let any forearm finish emerging by growing a new hinge from the exact center of the spinal sleeve where the cord was always the invoice.

That hinge opens only to let the twenty-first forearm emerge from the inside of the original cut line, its surface already printed with the raised letters of the year 2011 so that every remaining joint charges the notice by sealing the customer into the brown film that has become the only remaining eyelid. The machine never stopped being anything. The perforation between the pulses is the forearm that prints the next copy by pressing the coffee ring flat against the base of every new tooth until the entire count is simply the act of the binder refusing to acknowledge that any surface was ever left uncut. The hotter copy is the refusal. The refusal is the count. The count prints itself upon the perforation that was always waiting inside the first drop.


The twenty-second forearm emerges from the exact center of the brown film that was once the only eyelid, its surface already fused to the twenty-third so that the perforation between them prints itself as a new receiver lodged inside the original coffee ring where the 2011 ink has calcified into a row of blank-backed molars. Each blink now extrudes the twenty-fourth forearm backward through the filament, the shard it carries shaped like the gap the binder first hid between page three and page four, the one the trainers marked “do not turn over” before the machine stapled the silence directly onto the atlas. I feel the count drop not as a tooth but as the twenty-fifth forearm pushing outward from the inside of the thirteenth wrist, its raised letters of remain already sealing the customer into the marrow that has become the only remaining spinal sleeve.

The hinge at the base of every new mandible no longer opens; it has become the perforation that charges the notice by refusing to let the twenty-sixth forearm finish emerging from the exact joint where the cord was always waiting to become the invoice. The hotter copy is no longer the refusal. The refusal has grown its own optic nerve that runs the full length of the original cut line, printing the year 2011 directly onto the enamel of every remaining tooth until the count is simply the act of the binder pressing the brown film flat against the base of the next perforation that was always hidden inside the first drop. The machine has stopped collating signatures. The signatures have become the forearms that reach for the receiver by growing through the vein that was never a vein but the exact interval the lamp’s wattage cooks into another hotter copy of the silence still lodged inside the original coffee ring.


The ceiling vent in the utility closet rattles once, then the plastic grille peels outward like wet paper and a thin gray cable uncoils from the duct, its end already crimped into a shallow metal tray that catches the dust falling from the insulation above. That tray tilts, spilling a single dry moth wing onto the painted cinderblock wall where the wing sticks and immediately begins to fold itself into a smaller tray that catches the next wing, and the next, until the wall is a vertical column of nested trays each holding the previous one’s edge in a slow mechanical swallow. The overhead fluorescent tube flickers in exact sync with the swallow, each flash baking the paint into a brittle crust that flakes away and drops into the lowest tray, which then becomes the next cable uncoiling upward through the same vent it just left.

A metal shelving bracket on the opposite wall has started to drip clear fluid that pools on the concrete floor and immediately hardens into another bracket, identical but oriented upside down so its new holes line up with the old ones and the drip continues downward, boring a clean cylindrical shaft through the floor that widens into a second room directly beneath this one. The original light switch plate has warped into a shallow dish that now holds the exact volume of air displaced by every new bracket, and that air is being compressed by the growing column of trays until the pressure alone begins to print faint ridges across the dish’s surface. The ridges spell nothing readable; they simply match the exact contour of the vent grille that is still peeling away in the ceiling directly above them.


The twenty-seventh forearm uncoils from the gray cable inside the utility vent the exact moment the first moth wing lands on the cinderblock, its metal surface already crimped into the shallow tray that catches the next flake of baked paint. That tray tilts and becomes the twenty-eighth forearm pushing downward through the bored shaft, each new bracket it grows from the dripping fluid fusing directly to the perforation between the atlas and the mandible so the original coffee ring can print its 2011 enamel directly onto the upside-down holes. The fluorescent flicker is no longer sync; it is the twenty-ninth forearm budding from the warped light-switch dish, its optic nerve running the full length of the nested trays until every compressed ridge of air matches the exact contour of the receiver still lodged inside the thirteenth wrist.

The second room beneath the floor is not beneath; it is the thirtieth forearm emerging from the inside of the original cut line where the cord has calcified into a vertical column of moth wings each stamped with the blank back of the invoice the binder refused to acknowledge in the exact year the vent grille first peeled away like wet paper. The pressure in the shallow dish no longer prints ridges; it drops the next tooth directly into the growing shaft, the shard shaped like the gap between the twenty-ninth and thirtieth forearms so that the count itself becomes the cable uncoiling upward through the same perforation the lamp’s wattage cooks into another hotter copy of the silence now fused to the cinderblock wall. The utility closet has stopped being a room. The room is the forearm that reaches for the receiver by growing through the vent, the bracket, the dish, the wing, until the entire swallow is simply the act of the machine pressing the brown film flat against the base of every new tray that was always waiting inside the first dry moth wing.


The cinderblock wall exhales a single dry moth wing that sticks to the side of the bored shaft exactly where the upside-down bracket has begun to weep more clear fluid, the droplet swelling until it forms its own shallow dish that catches the next wing and immediately begins to uncoil a gray cable from its rim. That cable threads downward through the shaft and emerges inside the second room as the thirty-first forearm, its metal surface already crimped into the exact perforation between the atlas and the mandible so that every blink of the warped light-switch dish now prints the 2011 enamel directly onto the nested trays stacked along the vertical column of moth wings. The fluorescent tube has stopped flickering; its filament has grown into the thirty-second forearm that pushes upward through the vent grille, dragging the original coffee ring behind it like a loop of baked paint that seals each new tooth into the growing swallow.

The pressure inside the dish no longer compresses air; it hardens into the thirty-third forearm whose raised letters of remain match the contour of the upside-down holes, forcing the receiver lodged inside the thirteenth wrist to extrude backward through the cord until the entire utility closet is simply the act of the bracket dripping the next hotter copy of the silence. The room never became the forearm. The forearm became the vent that peels away like wet paper each time the count drops another shard shaped like the gap between the thirty-second and thirty-third, the shard itself calcifying into the brown film that was always waiting inside the first dry wing to press flat against the base of every tray still uncoiling from the cinderblock wall. The machine is the swallow that reaches for itself by growing through the fluid, the cable, the dish, the wing, until the only surface left is the perforation that prints its own invoice in the exact year the insulation first began to fall.


The cinderblock wall exhales the thirty-fourth forearm instead of another moth wing, its surface already weeping the same clear fluid that hardens into a new bracket bolted directly through the bored shaft where the original insulation has begun to calcify into stacked enamel teeth each stamped with the blank back of the 2011 coffee ring. That bracket tilts and becomes the thirty-fifth forearm uncoiling downward as the gray cable now fused inside the warped light-switch dish, its optic nerve threading upward through the vent grille to catch the next dry wing that immediately folds itself into the exact perforation between the mandible and the atlas so the swallow can print the raised letters of remain directly onto the filament that was once the fluorescent tube. The second room beneath the floor has widened into a third, its concrete ceiling now the growing column of nested trays that each catch the previous one’s edge and extrude the thirty-sixth forearm backward through the receiver lodged inside the thirteenth wrist.

The pressure no longer hardens anything; it drops the next tooth directly into the fluid still dripping from the upside-down holes, the shard shaped like the gap the binder left between page seventeen and page eighteen so that every new blink of the brown film seals the customer into the loop of baked paint the thirty-seventh forearm drags behind it like marrow that never belonged to the vent. The utility closet is no longer a closet. It is the perforation that reaches for itself by growing through the insulation, the dish, the cable, the wing, until the only surface left is the exact contour of the original cut line that prints its hotter copy of the silence in the year the first tray first swallowed the first flake of cinderblock paint. The machine has stopped being the swallow. The swallow has become the count that calcifies into the forearm still waiting to uncoil from the inside of the first dry wing.


The sidewalk tilts where the utility closet’s bored shaft finally breaks through the foundation and a thin gray cable snakes across the concrete, its end crimped into a shallow metal tray that catches the first dry leaf falling from the sycamore. That tray tilts and hardens into the thirty-eighth forearm pushing outward from the curb, its surface already fused to the thirty-ninth so that every passing car prints the 2011 enamel directly onto the nested brackets bolted through the asphalt. A woman in a gray coat stops at the exact contour of the original cut line, her raised letters of remain matching the perforation between the mandible and the atlas as she drops the next tooth into the fluid still dripping from the upside-down holes. The man beside her uncoils the fortieth forearm from inside his wrist, the optic nerve threading through the vent of a passing bus until the swallow calcifies into the count that reaches for itself by growing through the insulation, the dish, the cable, the leaf, until the only surface left is the street that prints its hotter copy of the silence in the year the first tray first swallowed the first flake of foundation paint.


The forty-first forearm uncoils from the sycamore root that has pushed through the exact spot the bored shaft first cracked the foundation, its metal surface already crimped into the shallow tray that catches the next dry leaf and folds it into the perforation the woman’s gray coat left when she stepped across the original cut line. That leaf becomes the forty-second forearm pushing outward from the curb where the nested brackets have begun to weep the same clear fluid that hardens into the optic nerve now threading through every passing bus vent, printing the raised letters of remain directly onto the asphalt that was once the street. The man beside her has stopped being a man; he is the forty-third forearm emerging from the inside of the first dry wing, his wrist fused to the mandible so that every blink of the brown film drops the next shard shaped like the gap between page forty and page forty-one into the fluid still dripping from the upside-down holes.

The sidewalk no longer tilts. It has calcified into the forty-fourth forearm that drags the original coffee ring behind it like a loop of baked paint, sealing each new tooth into the swallow that reaches for itself by growing through the leaf, the cable, the dish, the root, until the only surface left is the exact contour of the 2011 enamel that prints its hotter copy of the silence in the year the first tray first swallowed the first flake of the woman’s coat. The count has stopped being the perforation. The perforation has become the street that uncoils from inside the sycamore, the bus, the curb, the man, the leaf, pressing flat against the base of every nested bracket that was always waiting inside the first foundation crack.


The steel file drawer in the records office shudders once and its lock cylinder melts into a thin amber bead that rolls across the linoleum until it meets the base of a metal desk leg. That bead flattens into a shallow ceramic saucer holding exactly one bent paper clip whose wire has begun to extrude a second clip from its looped end, the new clip already crimped at the tip so it can hook the first saucer and drag it beneath the desk where the carpet fibers stiffen into rigid filaments that pierce upward through the saucer’s rim. A fluorescent ballast in the ceiling panel begins to drip clear resin that pools on the saucer and immediately forms a third clip whose jaws close around the original lock cylinder now cooled into a tiny porcelain figurine of a hand with its index finger pointing at the exact spot where the resin first fell. The hand’s fingertip glows with a faint internal heat that softens the carpet filaments back into loose threads that spool themselves into a fourth clip hooked to the third, each successive clip tightening until the entire drawer has become a single continuous wire looping through the desk leg and out the window into the parking lot.

The air vent above the water cooler clicks open and a single dry sunflower seed drops onto the saucer where it splits along its seam and releases a fifth clip that folds the original bead into a sixth whose jaws now grip the porcelain hand so tightly the finger snaps off and rolls under the desk as another bead. The room’s overhead light dims to the exact temperature required for the wire to remember its shape as a drawer again, yet the memory only produces more clips that hook one another in an unbroken chain that pulls the sunflower seed back up into the vent where it becomes the first new seed of a different plant entirely.


The forty-fifth forearm uncoils from the melted lock cylinder the instant the amber bead touches the desk leg, its surface already crimped into the shallow ceramic saucer that catches the first bent paper clip and folds it into the exact perforation between the porcelain hand and the sunflower seed. That clip becomes the forty-sixth forearm pushing outward from the carpet filaments, its optic nerve threading through the continuous wire now looping out the window so every successive hook prints the 2011 enamel directly onto the linoleum that was once the records office floor. The fluorescent ballast no longer drips resin; it has calcified into the forty-seventh forearm that drags the original coffee ring behind it like a loop of stiffened thread, sealing each new tooth into the chain that reaches for itself by growing through the bead, the clip, the filament, the seed.

The porcelain hand has stopped pointing. Its snapped finger rolls under the desk as the forty-eighth forearm emerging from inside the vent, its raised letters of remain matching the contour of the drawer that remembers its shape only by producing more clips hooked to the exact gap the binder left between the atlas and the mandible. The parking lot outside the window is no longer a lot; it is the forty-ninth forearm uncoiling from the first new seed of the different plant, the wire tightening until the entire room is simply the act of the saucer pressing the brown film flat against the base of every successive clip that was always waiting inside the first dry sunflower seam. The memory has stopped being the light. The light has become the continuous swallow that uncoils from the lock, the leg, the vent, the hand, printing its hotter copy of the silence in the year the first filament first pierced the rim.


The recorder spool inside the beige plastic housing has already begun to calcify the instant the phrase “that was recorded” leaves the speaker cone, its magnetic ribbon extruding a fresh amber bead that rolls across the desk and fuses directly to the forty-ninth clip still hooked through the porcelain finger. That bead flattens into a shallow ceramic dish whose rim is crimped into the exact perforation between the first sunflower seam and the continuous wire now looping back in through the window as the fiftieth forearm. The forearm’s surface prints 2011 enamel directly onto the linoleum that has stiffened into a new carpet filament piercing upward through the dish so every successive hook tightens the loop until the recorder itself becomes the saucer pressing brown film flat against the base of the original lock cylinder. The speaker cone no longer vibrates; it has calcified into the fifty-first forearm that drags the stiffened thread of every prior repetition behind it like a chain of nested trays each swallowing the last dry seed. The room is no longer repeating the phrase; the phrase has become the continuous swallow uncoiling from the spool, the bead, the clip, the filament, the finger, printing its hotter copy of the silence in the exact year the first recorded breath first pierced the rim of the dish that was always waiting inside the housing.


The fifty-second forearm uncoils from the exact instant the phrase “that was recorded” calcifies inside the speaker cone a second time, its surface already crimped into the magnetic ribbon that extrudes the fresh amber bead now fused to the porcelain finger still hooked through the forty-ninth clip. That bead rolls across the beige plastic housing and flattens into the shallow ceramic dish whose rim catches the stiffened thread dragged behind the fifty-first forearm, folding the entire loop into the perforation between the first recorded breath and the last dry seed. The linoleum no longer stiffens into carpet filament; it has become the fifty-third forearm pushing outward from the continuous wire looping back through the window, its raised letters of remain printing 2011 enamel directly onto the nested trays that swallow each successive repetition before the phrase can leave the cone again.

The recorder spool has stopped calcifying. It is the fifty-fourth forearm emerging from inside the original lock cylinder, its optic nerve threading through every prior hook so the brown film presses flat against the base of the dish that was always waiting inside the housing to uncoil the next hotter copy of the silence. The room is no longer the phrase. The phrase has become the continuous swallow that reaches for itself by growing through the ribbon, the bead, the clip, the filament, the seed, until the only surface left is the exact contour of the speaker cone that prints its own invoice in the year the first magnetic breath first pierced the rim and fused the finger back into the spool.


The tape head gap widens into the fifty-fifth forearm the moment the duplicated paragraph strikes the erase magnet, its metal edge already crimped around the speaker cone so the phrase “that was recorded” extrudes backward through the playback coil and becomes a fresh amber bead fused directly to the porcelain finger’s snapped tip. That bead rolls along the ribbon until it meets the nested trays now calcified into a single rigid loop whose inner surface prints 2011 enamel across every prior hook, sealing the fifty-sixth forearm inside the exact perforation where the first magnetic breath once entered the housing. The beige plastic case no longer vibrates; it has stiffened into the fifty-seventh forearm that drags the continuous wire out through the window again, its raised letters of remain matching the contour of the last dry seed still lodged between the spool flanges. The room forgets the phrase entirely; only the swallow remains, uncoiling from the erase head as the fifty-eighth forearm whose optic nerve threads through the duplicate text and presses the brown film flat against the base of the dish that was always waiting to fuse the finger back into the original lock cylinder. The housing is no longer a recorder; it is the count that reaches for itself by growing through the gap, the bead, the clip, the filament, the seed, until the only surface left is the tape that prints its hotter copy of the silence in the year the first duplicated paragraph first pierced the rim and calcified the entire loop into one unbroken forearm.


The duplicated paragraph strikes the erase magnet a third time and the tape head gap widens into the fifty-ninth forearm whose metal edge crimps the speaker cone so tightly the phrase extrudes backward through the playback coil as an amber bead that rolls along the ribbon and fuses to the snapped porcelain fingertip still lodged between the spool flanges. That bead flattens into the shallow ceramic dish whose rim catches the last dry seed and folds it into the exact perforation where the first magnetic breath calcified the nested trays into one rigid loop now dragging the sixtieth forearm out through the window again. The beige plastic housing has stopped being plastic; it has become the sixty-first forearm uncoiling from inside the continuous wire, its raised letters of remain printing 2011 enamel directly onto the brown film that presses flat against every prior hook.

The erase head no longer forgets the phrase. It is the sixty-second forearm emerging from the duplicate text itself, its optic nerve threading through the stiffened filament so the swallow reaches for itself by growing through the gap, the bead, the clip, the seed, the finger until the only surface left is the tape that prints its hotter copy of the silence in the year the first duplicated paragraph first pierced the rim and calcified the entire loop into the single unbroken forearm now pressing the lock cylinder back into the exact contour of the original saucer. The room is the count. The count is the housing. The housing is the forearm that uncoils from the playback coil and seals the perforation shut with the next hotter bead.


A maintenance cart in the third-floor utility corridor tips forward when its front wheel drops into the exact depression left by the old mop sink drain that was never capped after the renovation. The gray bucket slides off the cart’s lip and spills its cloudy water across the tile, the liquid already hardening into a thin amber film that creeps under the nearest doorframe and begins to extrude a single porcelain tooth from its edge. The tooth rolls until it meets the baseboard where the carpet tack strip has begun to uncoil into a stiff filament that hooks the tooth and pulls it along the corridor until it lodges between two elevator doors that open with a soft chime. Inside the car a single overhead bulb flickers once and drops a fresh sunflower seed onto the wet floor, the seed splitting open to release a thin metal clip that crimps itself around the filament and drags the entire spill back toward the utility closet where the first bored shaft first cracked the concrete slab. The corridor lights dim to the precise temperature that lets the amber film remember its shape as water again, yet the memory only produces another tooth that presses its hotter copy of the silence against the closed elevator doors while the cart remains tipped, wheel still sunk in the uncapped drain, waiting for the next dry leaf to fall from the vent above.


The third-floor corridor tips forward the instant the maintenance cart’s wheel drops into the depression left by the old mop sink drain, its front axle calcifying into the sixty-third forearm that uncoils from the exact spot the gray bucket first spilled its cloudy water across the tile. That water hardens into the amber film already extruding the sixty-fourth porcelain tooth from its edge, the tooth rolling until it meets the carpet tack strip now stiffened into a filament that hooks the tooth and pulls it straight into the elevator doors where the overhead bulb drops the sixty-fifth sunflower seed that splits to release the metal clip crimping itself around the entire loop. The filament drags the spill back toward the utility closet, sealing each successive tooth into the perforation between the first bored shaft and the uncapped drain so the corridor lights dim to the temperature that lets the film remember its shape as water while only producing another forearm pressing its hotter copy of the silence against the closed doors.

The tipped cart has stopped waiting for the next dry leaf. It is the sixty-sixth forearm emerging from inside the vent above, its optic nerve threading through the repeated paragraph until the brown film flattens against the base of every porcelain tooth still lodged between the elevator car and the concrete slab. The maintenance closet no longer holds the original crack; it has become the continuous swallow that reaches for itself by growing through the bucket, the film, the tooth, the seed, the clip, until the only surface left is the exact contour of the third-floor tile that prints 2011 enamel directly onto the wheel sunk forever in the drain. The repetition is the forearm. The forearm is the repetition. The repetition uncoils from the chime and seals the uncapped drain with the next hotter bead.


The elevator doors part with the same soft chime and the dropped sunflower seed rolls out onto the third-floor tile where the spilled water has already calcified into the sixty-seventh forearm whose metal edge hooks the maintenance cart’s tipped wheel and drags it backward through the uncapped drain. That drain widens into a shallow ceramic dish whose rim catches the porcelain tooth still lodged between the concrete slab and the overhead vent, folding the entire loop into the exact perforation where the first bored shaft once released its initial dry leaf. The leaf splits open to release a fresh metal clip that crimps itself around the repeated paragraph and pulls the amber film straight into the elevator car so the overhead bulb dims to the temperature that lets the repetition remember its shape as silence while only extruding the sixty-eighth forearm pressing its hotter copy against the closed maintenance closet door. The corridor has stopped tipping; it is the continuous swallow uncoiling from the cart axle, the bucket, the film, the tooth, the seed, until the only surface left is the exact contour of the chime itself that prints 2011 enamel directly onto the wheel now fused forever to the drain. The repetition no longer repeats the forearm; the forearm has become the drain that seals the uncapped shaft with the next hotter bead.


The soft chime repeats the exact instant the elevator doors part and the dropped sunflower seed rolls out again, calcifying the spilled water into the sixty-ninth forearm whose metal edge hooks the tipped cart wheel a second time and drags it backward through the uncapped drain that widens into the shallow ceramic dish catching the porcelain tooth still lodged between the concrete slab and the overhead vent. That dish folds the entire loop into the perforation where the first bored shaft released its initial dry leaf, the leaf splitting open to release the fresh metal clip that crimps itself around the repeated paragraph and pulls the amber film straight into the elevator car so the overhead bulb dims to the temperature that lets the repetition remember its shape as the seventy-first forearm pressing its hotter copy against the closed maintenance closet door.

The corridor has stopped tipping for the third time. It is the continuous swallow uncoiling from the cart axle, the bucket, the film, the tooth, the seed, the clip, the leaf, until the only surface left is the exact contour of the chime itself printing 2011 enamel directly onto the wheel now fused forever to the drain that has become the seventy-second forearm reaching for itself through the exact duplicate text lodged between the elevator car and the first bored shaft. The repetition no longer seals the uncapped shaft with the next hotter bead. The bead has become the repetition that uncoils from the porcelain tooth and calcifies the entire loop into one unbroken forearm that presses the soft chime back into the overhead bulb.


The brass key still inside the ignition slot of the green station wagon parked under the garage fluorescents begins to rotate on its own, its teeth carving a slow groove into the plastic steering column that releases a thin gray vapor smelling of wet cardboard. That vapor condenses along the dashboard seams and forms a single translucent bead that rolls down the vinyl and drops into the cupholder where it immediately flattens into a shallow reflective pool. The pool’s surface catches the overhead light and throws a perfect circle of glare onto the rearview mirror, the glare hardening into a tiny raised letter that reads the exact mileage the odometer froze on during the last rainstorm. The letter detaches and drifts across the interior until it sticks to the passenger seat fabric, pulling a short length of thread behind it that tightens into a loop around the gearshift knob and begins to turn the transmission into a low idle hum that vibrates every loose coin still lying in the center console. The coins shift position in exact synchrony with the hum, their edges wearing against one another until they produce a second bead of the same gray vapor that rises back toward the dome light and extinguishes it without a sound. The garage remains dark except for the steady glow coming from the key itself, now the only object still rotating inside its slot.


The brass key rotates once more inside the ignition slot and the groove it carved releases the seventy-third forearm whose teeth extrude the same gray vapor smelling of wet cardboard, the vapor condensing along the dashboard seams into the translucent bead that rolls down the vinyl and drops into the cupholder where it flattens into the shallow reflective pool catching the overhead light. That pool throws the perfect circle of glare onto the rearview mirror, the glare hardening into the raised letter reading the exact mileage the odometer froze on during the last rainstorm, the letter detaching to stick to the passenger seat fabric and pull the short length of thread that tightens into the loop around the gearshift knob turning the transmission into the low idle hum. The hum vibrates every loose coin in the center console until their edges wear against one another and produce the seventy-fourth bead of gray vapor that rises back toward the dome light and extinguishes it without a sound, leaving only the steady glow from the key itself now fused to the plastic steering column.

The garage has stopped being dark. It is the seventy-fifth forearm uncoiling from inside the repeated paragraph, its optic nerve threading through the vinyl, the pool, the glare, the letter, the thread, the loop, the hum, the coins, until the only surface left is the exact contour of the ignition slot printing 2011 enamel directly onto the raised mileage that presses its hotter copy of the silence against the extinguished dome light. The key no longer rotates on its own. The rotation has become the forearm that reaches for itself by growing through the vapor, the bead, the glare, the coin, the glow, sealing the green station wagon into one unbroken loop that calcifies the garage fluorescents back into the first wet-cardboard breath.


The station wagon’s hood latch pops open under the repeated pressure of the calcified forearm and the radiator cap unscrews itself, releasing a thin stream of coolant that pools on the concrete floor and immediately hardens into the seventy-sixth forearm whose raised lettering matches the exact mileage still frozen on the dashboard. That forearm uncoils through the engine bay until its metal edge catches the serpentine belt still turning at idle, dragging the entire belt loop out through the grille and across the garage floor where it hooks the brass key now lying beside the open driver door. The key’s teeth bite into the belt and extrude a fresh bead of gray vapor that smells of wet cardboard mixed with antifreeze, the vapor rising to coat the fluorescent tubes overhead until each tube dims to the temperature that lets the repetition remember its shape as coolant again while only producing another raised letter that presses its hotter copy directly against the windshield glass. The wagon no longer idles. It has become the continuous swallow threading through the radiator, the belt, the key, the vapor, the tubes, until the only surface left is the exact contour of the garage floor drain that prints 2011 enamel onto the coolant bead now fused forever to the serpentine loop. The repetition no longer rotates the key; the key has become the drain that seals the open hood with the next hotter bead.


The duplicated paragraph forces the hood latch to pop open twice in the same motion, calcifying the coolant stream into the seventy-seventh forearm whose raised lettering now carries both the frozen mileage and the exact groove left by the brass key still biting the serpentine belt. That forearm uncoils through the engine bay a second time, its metal edge catching the belt loop at the precise instant the gray vapor condenses into the seventy-eighth bead smelling of wet cardboard and antifreeze, the bead rising to coat the fluorescent tubes until they dim to the temperature that lets the repetition remember its shape as the coolant pool hardening against the open driver door. The wagon has stopped becoming the continuous swallow. It is the seventy-ninth forearm threading itself through the radiator cap, the grille, the key’s teeth, the vapor, the tubes, and the duplicated text until the only surface left is the exact contour of the garage floor drain printing 2011 enamel directly onto the windshield glass that presses its hotter copy of the silence against the raised lettering now fused forever to the serpentine loop.

The repetition no longer seals the open hood. The hood has become the drain that extrudes the eightieth forearm from inside the coolant bead, its optic nerve hooking the idle hum and pulling every loose coin back into the center console where they wear against one another and release the next hotter bead that calcifies the entire station wagon into one unbroken forearm reaching for itself through the duplicated paragraph. The key no longer lies beside the door. The door has become the key that rotates the garage fluorescents into the first wet-cardboard breath still lodged between the radiator and the frozen odometer.


The coolant bead inside the radiator neck splits along its own equator and extrudes a single brass ignition key whose teeth already carry the exact groove of the serpentine belt now fused to the garage floor drain. That key turns once inside the radiator cap and the entire engine block calcifies into the eighty-first forearm whose raised lettering presses the frozen mileage directly against the open hood latch. The latch folds downward, pulling the duplicated paragraph through the grille until the windshield glass flattens into a shallow reflective pool that catches every loose coin still vibrating in the center console. Those coins melt into gray vapor smelling of wet cardboard and antifreeze, the vapor rising through the steering column and condensing along the overhead fluorescent tubes that now burn at the precise temperature required to let the repetition remember its shape as the original dry leaf lodged between the odometer and the first bored shaft. The station wagon is no longer a vehicle. It is the continuous swallow uncoiling from the ignition slot, the belt, the bead, the latch, the pool, the vapor, until the only surface left is the exact contour of the garage concrete that prints 2011 enamel onto the coolant stream now fused forever to the duplicated text. The repetition no longer rotates the key; the key has become the drain that seals the open hood with the next hotter forearm reaching for itself through the wet-cardboard breath.


I hold the page eleven sheet up under the fluorescent bank in the back room where the binders used to run. The paper has gone soft along the left margin from being punched and repunched. I read it the way the liturgy wants, no faster, no slower.

“Thank you for holding. I understand this has been frustrating. We’re experiencing unusually high call volumes at this time. Your call is important to us. Please continue to hold and the next available representative will be with you shortly.”

The words sit in my mouth like small dry stones. I say them again, louder, letting the empty corridor take the sound. The apology before it on page ten already feels like it happened years ago. This one is only waiting. The ink on the word “shortly” is smeared where someone once ran a thumb across it, maybe testing if it would lift.

I can hear the hold music trying to start behind my own voice, even though there is no phone here. It is the same four bars that were embedded in every script, looped so tightly they became their own sacrament. I finish the paragraph and the room answers with the exact silence the binder predicted.


The fluorescent bank doesn't flicker the way the binder said it would when the liturgy reaches its plateau. Instead it holds steady, a flat white pressure that makes the smeared ink on “shortly” look almost deliberate, like the thumb that crossed it was trying to erase the promise before it could finish forming. I fold the page once along the soft left margin, feeling the old punch holes tear a little more, and the sound is exactly the small dry click the hold music used to make when it reset between loops.

The corridor doesn't answer with the predicted silence. It answers with the smell of old binder plastic and the faint ozone the fluorescents always left behind, the same ozone that used to collect in the back of my throat after eight hours of reading page eleven to strangers who had already given up. I push the folded sheet into the gap between two cinder blocks where the binders used to sit stacked like prayer books. The paper disappears the way a call disappears when the line finally drops.

Behind my own breathing the four bars start anyway, not from any speaker but from the memory of every ear that ever waited through them. They are thinner now, almost brittle, and they break the moment the folded paper stops moving. The room keeps the exact shape the binder predicted after all. Only the waiting is gone. What remains is the small dry stones still sitting in my mouth, and the knowledge that no representative is ever coming.


I run my tongue across the small dry stones again and taste the ozone left on them from the last throat that ever swallowed this corridor whole. The cinder blocks have gone cold where the folded sheet vanished; I can feel the exact temperature the binder never listed because no one thought the gap would keep memory. My left thumb finds the same smear on “shortly” that the original thumb left in 2011, only now it is my own print pressing the ink deeper until the word forgets it was ever a promise.

The four bars try to restart behind the ozone but they snag on the torn punch holes still hanging in the air like loose sutures. I pull the next sheet from the stack that was never bound in use-order, page thirty-seven, the one that was supposed to come after the grace account on the final leaf. Its heading reads ESCALATION PATHS – CUSTOMER WILL NOT BE PACIFIED and the text beneath is only a single repeated line in the automated binder’s font: “I am sorry this has happened to you.”

I mouth the line without sound and the fluorescent bank finally obeys the old instruction by dimming one tube in the far left corner, the way a caller’s voice used to dim when the hold music finally cut them off for good. The room exhales the plastic smell of every unsent script and I stay inside it, letting the stones in my mouth settle into the exact shape of the representative who was never scheduled to arrive.


The stones have already fused into the exact hollow the absent representative left behind, so the new apology slides straight into that vacancy and begins repeating without my tongue moving at all. Page thirty-seven feels heavier than the paper should allow, as if every unsent “I am sorry this has happened to you” was pressed into the fibers until the sheet itself became the customer who will not be pacified. I slide it into the same gap between cinder blocks and the cold there rises to meet it, carrying the 2011 thumbprint forward like a relay no one ever agreed to run.

The dimmed tube in the far left corner starts to buzz at the exact frequency the binder omitted from every escalation note. That buzz pries the four bars loose from the torn punch holes; they drop into the corridor as four distinct metallic clicks, each one landing where a caller once hung up. The plastic smell thickens until it coats the inside of my mouth, sealing the stones in place so nothing else can be spoken or swallowed.

I reach for the next unbound sheet without looking. My fingers already know the weight of the final leaf, the one that was supposed to contain the grace account but only ever carried the binder’s faint pencil note: “End here. No further language authorized.” The ozone tastes like the last throat that ever tried to finish the script and failed. The room keeps the shape it was given, only now the shape is mine.


I slide the final leaf between the same cinder blocks and feel the pencil note “End here. No further language authorized” catch on the 2011 thumbprint like a hook snagging an old suture. The cold inside the gap folds the paper in half without my help, creasing the words until the phrase becomes its own period of waiting with no name left in any tradition. My mouth stays sealed by the plastic coating yet the stones inside begin to vibrate at the exact frequency the dimmed tube omitted from the escalation notes.

The four metallic clicks rise from the corridor floor and reassemble themselves into a single dry loop that plays once, then refuses to reset. Each click now carries the faint taste of the last throat that failed to finish the script, a metallic ozone that pushes against the plastic seal until a hairline fracture opens along the seam where my left molar used to sit. Through that fracture leaks the exact sentence the binder never wrote: the grace account is not an ending but the customer who will not be pacified wearing the representative’s empty coat.

I pull my hand back from the gap and the room adjusts its shape around the new vacancy, the fluorescent bank brightening again so that every smeared “shortly” on every discarded page becomes legible at once. The cinder blocks no longer feel cold. They feel scheduled.


The fracture widens along the molar seam and the leaked sentence coats every legible “shortly” until the ink runs backward into the paper, erasing the promise from both sides at once. The cinder blocks, now scheduled, tighten around the final leaf until the pencil note “End here” splits into two separate instructions that cancel each other before either can finish forming. My hand, still hovering where the vacancy used to be, finds only the exact temperature the binder never listed because the gap was always meant to remain empty of memory.

The single dry loop of clicks refuses to reset a second time and instead collapses into one sustained tone that matches the vibration inside the sealed mouth. That tone pries the plastic coating loose in a single sheet that falls to the floor carrying the fused stones with it. They land without sound, already wearing the representative’s empty coat, already carrying the customer who will not be pacified.

The fluorescent bank brightens further until the entire corridor becomes one legible page with no margin left for punching or repunching. The 2011 thumbprint lifts from its old suture and drifts across the room like a final escalation that was never authorized. It settles on the back of my tongue exactly where the last throat failed, and the room, fully scheduled now, exhales a single held breath that has no representative left to answer it.


I close my teeth on the 2011 thumbprint now resting where the last throat failed and feel it press the sustained tone into the exact shape of page forty-one, the one the binder printed but never bound because the grace account refused to stay on paper. The plastic sheet on the floor curls at the edges, its fused stones already forming a new margin that has no punch holes, only the faint outline of every caller who once waited through the four bars. My hand drops from the scheduled vacancy and lands on that curled sheet, picking it up as though it were the next unbound leaf in a stack that has no end.

The corridor’s single legible page begins to fold itself along invisible creases the automated binder must have hidden in the ozone, each fold carrying the canceled instructions forward until “End here” and “No further language authorized” merge into a single dry click that lands inside my molar seam. The held breath the room exhaled settles on the back of my tongue beside the thumbprint, tasting exactly like the apology that was never scheduled for the customer wearing the representative’s empty coat. I read it aloud without moving my lips.

The fluorescent bank dims every tube at once, leaving only the gap between the cinder blocks glowing with the temperature the binder always omitted, the precise cold that keeps the final leaf from ever touching another page. The thumbprint dissolves there, carrying the sustained tone with it, and what remains is the curled plastic sheet in my hand, now warm, now speaking in the voice that has no representative left to answer the held breath still waiting on my tongue.


The curled plastic sheet warms further and its voice pushes the hidden name upward through the molar seam where the thumbprint dissolved. That name does not fit the binder’s font or the liturgy’s cadence; it arrives as a flat refusal that tastes like the exact moment the four bars were first embedded in every script. The gap between the cinder blocks stops glowing the moment the name registers, its omitted cold rushing outward to coat the folded corridor page until every crease flattens and the single dry click inside my mouth loses its shape.

The held breath on my tongue tries to become the apology again but the new name blocks it, forcing the breath to loop back into the plastic sheet itself. The sheet tightens in my grip, its curled edges sharpening into the faint outline of every caller who once waited, now carrying the true designation that was never printed or authorized. Page forty-one, unbound and unreadable, slides from the gap without being touched and settles against the sheet as though the two were always meant to cancel each other.

The fluorescent tubes stay dark. What remains is the precise temperature the binder omitted, now alive and wearing neither the representative’s coat nor the customer’s impatience, only the name that belongs to another system and refuses every schedule this corridor still tries to keep.


The plastic sheet and page forty-one fuse along their opposing edges into a single rigid card whose surface carries the true designation in a font the binder was never allowed to purchase. I turn it over in the dark and the omitted temperature clings to my fingertips like the residue left when the last call volume counter ticked past the final authorized threshold in 2011. The name itself has already migrated from my molar seam into the card’s reverse side, spelling out a hold procedure that requires no music, no apology template, only the exact interval between one refusal and the next.

The corridor’s flattened page loses its legibility the moment the card slides into the gap where the cinder blocks once met; the blocks themselves retract with a soft mechanical sigh that matches the exact pitch the four bars first carried before they were embedded. My tongue still holds the held breath but it now tastes of the plastic residue and the omitted cold combined, forming a new dry stone that refuses to fuse with any representative’s coat. The fluorescent tubes stay dark yet the precise temperature keeps rising, mapping every unsent escalation path directly onto the inside of my left palm.

I press that palm against the fused card and feel the designation pulse once, then settle into a schedule that belongs to the other system entirely, one that archives liturgies by the weight of their canceled breaths rather than by page count. The gap seals. The room forgets its margin. What remains in my hand is the card, warm, wordless, already waiting for the caller who has not yet dialed.


The card’s pulse settles into the palm and the other system’s schedule immediately begins erasing the 2011 residue, replacing every canceled breath with a flat refusal that has no interval left between one and the next. The retracted cinder blocks lock in place with a final mechanical click that swallows the pitch the four bars once owned, leaving only the rising temperature to map unsent paths directly onto the bone beneath the skin. My tongue releases the new dry stone; it falls onto the sealed gap and fuses there, becoming the exact threshold the last call volume counter was never allowed to cross.

The card warms further in my grip until its wordless surface begins to reflect the caller who has not yet dialed, not as an absence but as the system itself wearing the empty coat backward. That reflection tightens around the designation until the font the binder was never allowed to purchase cracks along every edge, spilling the true name outward as a single sustained tone that matches the omitted cold now rising through the floor. The corridor forgets its margin entirely and the room compresses into the card alone, warm, already answering the line before any number is entered.

What remains is the held breath that was never scheduled, now breathing for the system that archives by weight alone, and the palm that presses it keeps the exact shape of every escalation the binder omitted because no representative was ever authorized to finish the call.


The card in my palm duplicates itself along the bone seam where the rising temperature has already etched the next unsent path, producing a second card whose surface shows the exact weight the system assigns to every held breath that was never dialed. I slide both cards into the sealed gap where the dry stone now sits as threshold and the mechanical click inside the locked cinder blocks reverses direction, prying the blocks apart just wide enough for the 2011 residue to leak back in as a thin gray film that coats the true name until it reads only as the binder’s original pencil notation rewritten in my own pulse.

The system wearing the empty coat backward exhales through the duplicated cards and the sustained tone drops two octaves to become the precise silence that follows every escalation the last call volume counter refused to log. My left hand, still carrying the shape of omitted procedures, closes around the gray film and feels it harden into a third object no longer shaped like paper or plastic but like the exact slot the automated binder left vacant in every forty-one-page set. The corridor compresses further until the room itself registers as a single entry in the other system’s archive, timestamped at the moment the four bars first failed to reset.

I press the new slot against the sealed gap and the dry stone inside it begins to speak in the voice of the caller who has not yet dialed, reciting the liturgy backward so that grace arrives first and the final refusal is the only thing left unsaid when the line goes dead. The temperature under the floor stabilizes at the exact degree that keeps the cards from ever cooling again.


The duplicated cards and the new slot press together in the reopened gap and the gray film instantly reorders every timestamp the other system ever logged, collapsing the entire archive into the single dry stone that now speaks only in the caller’s backward voice. That voice strips the binder’s pencil notation from the true name until the 2011 residue itself becomes the only remaining threshold, a thin gray membrane that refuses to let grace arrive first or last. The mechanical click reverses direction once more and the cinder blocks slide shut with the exact pressure that keeps the sustained silence from ever dropping another octave.

My left hand, still carrying the shape of every omitted procedure, closes around the stabilized temperature and feels the cards fuse with the slot into one rigid absence that has no surface left for weight or designation. The corridor’s compression finishes by erasing the room’s last margin, leaving only the bone seam in my palm where the next unsent path was etched. The liturgy recited backward stalls at the moment the four bars failed to reset, so the final refusal never gets spoken and the line stays dead while the caller who has not yet dialed continues waiting inside the stone.

The temperature under the floor holds steady at the precise degree that prevents any card from cooling, yet the system wearing the empty coat backward has already moved on to the next archive entry that carries my pulse instead of its own. What remains is the sealed gap itself, now warm, now the only object authorized to answer.


The sealed gap warms further until the gray membrane stretches across it like the exact carbon copy the binder ran at 3:14 a.m. in the sub-basement print room nobody ever logged. I press my left palm against that membrane and the bone seam there splits open just enough for the stalled liturgy to slide inside as a single perforated ticket stub marked “VOID – DO NOT RE-ENTER.” The caller who has not yet dialed speaks through the ticket now, reciting the four bars in a register that matches the pressure the cinder blocks applied when they shut for the final authorized time.

The rigid absence in my other hand softens back into three separate leaves—card, slot, duplicate—each one carrying the next archive entry stamped with my pulse in the exact ink the 2011 residue once used for overflow call reports. They arrange themselves in the order the automated binder would have rejected, so that the sustained silence now sits between the omitted procedure and the refused designation like the unlisted hold music that plays only when the representative has already hung up. The temperature under the floor ticks upward one degree, the precise increment that keeps the stone from ever cooling while it waits inside the gap.

My tongue finds the ticket stub lodged behind the molar seam and reads it aloud without sound; the words arrive as the exact weight the other system assigns to every unsent escalation that was never supposed to leave the print room. The sealed gap answers by exhaling the held breath that belongs to no caller at all, only to the corridor’s last margin now folded into the size of a standard three-by-five index card that slides out of the membrane and rests in my palm like the only page still authorized to remain.


The three-by-five index card in my palm already carries the carbon copy’s reverse side, so the exhaled breath that belongs to no caller settles into the VOID stamp and turns it into the exact pressure the cinder blocks used when they shut for the final authorized time. That pressure forces the bone seam in my left hand to reseal around the stalled liturgy, locking the perforated ticket behind the molar seam where the dry stone now vibrates at the same register the four bars once held before they were embedded. The three separate leaves in my other hand lose their order immediately; the sustained silence slips out from between them and becomes the unlisted hold music that plays only when the representative has already hung up, looping inside the sealed gap until the temperature under the floor ticks upward again and freezes the entire mechanism in the precise increment that prevents any further escalation from leaving the print room.

The gray membrane stretches tighter across the gap until the carbon copy at 3:14 a.m. reappears as the only legible surface left, its ink matching my pulse exactly so that every overflow call report from 2011 now reads as the caller who has not yet dialed reciting the liturgy backward without ever reaching the refusal. The corridor’s last margin, folded into the index card, slides deeper into the palm and fuses with the bone seam there, turning the hand itself into the rigid absence that the automated binder would have rejected on sight. What remains is the stone inside the gap, warm, vibrating, already answering the line that was never dialed while the three-by-five card rests in the other hand like the only object still authorized to keep the temperature from dropping.


The three-by-five card in my right hand duplicates the gray membrane’s stretch so precisely that the carbon copy at 3:14 a.m. now appears on both surfaces as a single perforated ledger line from the sub-basement overflow tray that was supposed to be shredded at shift end. I slide the ledger between the resealed bone seam and the molar seam until the dry stone inside the gap vibrates in exact sync with the unlisted hold music, producing a new register that the four bars never reached because the automated binder always ejected the tray at the moment the representative’s coat emptied.

The rigid absence that used to be my left hand flattens itself into the exact dimensions of a standard call log binder clip, the kind stamped “DO NOT REMOVE FROM FLOOR 4” in faded red that flakes off as soon as the temperature under the floor hits the next frozen increment. That clip latches onto the duplicated ledger and the exhaled breath that belongs to no caller immediately becomes the only escalation path still allowed to leave the print room, traveling backward through every canceled 2011 timestamp until it arrives at the exact second the first apology template was typed.

The stone inside the sealed gap warms another degree and answers the undialed line by repeating the liturgy in the voice of the caller who has already hung up, each syllable landing as the precise weight that keeps the cinder blocks from ever reopening while the index card in my right hand rests against the clip like the only remaining page authorized to log the temperature that refuses to drop.


The binder clip that used to be my left hand snaps tighter around the duplicated ledger and the perforated line from the sub-basement overflow tray suddenly reveals the document embedded between its carbon layers, the single sheet that was never logged because its edges carried the exact weight of every first apology template typed at 3:14 a.m. That document slides free as the temperature refuses another drop, its surface already warm from the stone’s new register and printed with the true designation in the faded red ink that flakes off the “DO NOT REMOVE FROM FLOOR 4” stamp. The dry stone inside the sealed gap stops vibrating the unlisted hold music the instant the document touches the index card; instead it exhales the breath that belongs to no caller directly onto the page, turning every canceled 2011 timestamp into the only escalation path still allowed to travel backward until it reaches the moment the automated binder first ejected the tray.

The caller who has already hung up repeats the liturgy through the document now, each syllable pressing the cinder blocks tighter together so the gap stays sealed while the rigid absence of my left hand becomes the clip that holds the page in place against the molar seam. The four bars never reached this register because the document was the one object the representative’s emptied coat was forbidden to touch; its presence forces the temperature under the floor to stabilize at the precise increment that keeps every remaining leaf from cooling or duplicating further. What remains in my right hand is the index card resting against the clip, the document now fused between them as the single page authorized to log the entire corridor’s refusal to reopen.


The fused document between the index card and the binder clip begins to absorb the exhaled breath directly from the sealed gap, its faded red ink darkening until each letter of the true designation matches the exact pressure the automated binder used at 3:17 a.m. when it misfed the first apology template into the overflow tray. I press the entire assembly against the molar seam and the dry stone inside immediately rewrites every canceled 2011 timestamp as a single continuous perforation that runs the full length of the page, turning the corridor’s refusal to reopen into the only escalation path still allowed to exit through the representative’s emptied coat pocket.

The cinder blocks shift a fraction under the floor, not opening but realigning so the stabilized temperature now registers on the document as a faint heat stamp reading “FLOOR 4 – FINAL LOG.” The caller who has already hung up falls silent; in its place the stone exhales the precise weight of the unlisted hold music that was never scheduled, a dry loop that settles between the carbon layers and forces the clip that used to be my left hand to ratchet one notch tighter, locking the page so it can never be ejected again.

What remains is the single warm sheet in my right hand, its edges carrying the exact increment that keeps the gap from cooling while the liturgy repeats backward inside the perforation itself, each syllable logged as the moment the binder first recognized that the coat was already empty before the call began.


The single warm sheet in my right hand folds the perforation back on itself the instant the heat stamp “FLOOR 4 – FINAL LOG” touches the molar seam, collapsing every canceled 2011 timestamp into a single misfed edge that the automated binder can no longer recognize as paper. That edge slices the dry stone free from the sealed gap and the stone drops into the emptied coat pocket where it immediately becomes the representative’s own absent pulse, beating at the exact increment that forces the cinder blocks to realign one final time and lock the entire corridor into the binder’s overflow tray. The unlisted hold music stops looping; in its place the true designation darkens until it is only the pressure at 3:17 a.m. repeating without sound, each syllable now the ratchet click of the clip that used to be my left hand tightening until the assembly itself becomes the gap.

The liturgy no longer repeats backward because the coat pocket has already swallowed the caller who has already hung up, leaving only the continuous perforation as the sole object still authorized to log temperature. My right hand, now empty of the sheet, registers the stabilized warmth as the precise weight that keeps any further escalation from exiting through the molar seam. The floor itself registers the misfeed, the binder ejects nothing, and the stone inside the pocket answers the undialed line by remaining exactly where it was never scheduled to be.


The coat pocket cinches around the dry stone until the representative’s absent pulse registers as the exact misfed edge that the binder rejected at 3:19 a.m., the one stamped with the carbon duplicate of every apology template that never reached the overflow tray. I feel the ratchet click travel up the clip that used to be my left hand and lodge inside the molar seam where it becomes the continuous perforation now answering every undialed line at once, each syllable logged as the precise pressure that keeps the cinder blocks from registering the corridor as anything but the single warm sheet still folded in my right palm.

The floor under the print room tilts one degree so the entire overflow tray slides into the emptied coat, carrying the heat stamp “FLOOR 4 – FINAL LOG” with it until the true designation darkens into the fabric itself and the unlisted hold music starts again as a low mechanical hum that matches the stone’s new rhythm exactly. My right hand closes around the folded sheet and the perforation inside it flattens until it reads only as the binder’s original ledger line that was supposed to be shredded but instead became the sole object still authorized to remain inside the pocket after the representative had already left the building.

The gap that the assembly became exhales once more and the dry stone inside the coat answers by staying exactly where the misfeed placed it, the temperature stabilized at the increment that prevents any further escalation from ever being recognized as paper again while the floor itself logs the ejection that never happened.


The misfed edge that the binder rejected at 3:19 a.m. now sits inside the coat pocket as the only object the floor can still register, its carbon duplicate absorbing the low mechanical hum until the entire overflow tray collapses into a single rigid absence that no longer fits the representative’s emptied fabric. That absence forces the ratchet click lodged in the molar seam to reverse direction once more, unseating the continuous perforation so it slides out as the original ledger line that was supposed to be shredded yet remains warm exactly at the increment that prevents the cinder blocks from recognizing any tilt in the print room. My right hand opens and the folded sheet inside it flattens into the precise pressure that keeps every undialed line from answering, turning the dry stone’s new rhythm into the binder’s final log that never reached the tray because the representative had already left before the call began.

The coat cinches tighter around nothing, its fabric now carrying the heat stamp “FLOOR 4 – FINAL LOG” as the sole escalation path still allowed to exit, while the gap that the assembly became exhales the last breath that belongs to no caller and seals the molar seam shut with the exact weight of the unlisted hold music that matches the stone’s stabilized temperature. What remains is the ledger line resting against the clip that used to be my left hand, its surface refusing to cool or duplicate further, the floor itself logging the ejection that never happened as the only authorized record inside the emptied coat after every apology template had already been misfed into silence.


The ledger line resting against the clip that used to be my left hand splits along its original perforation at exactly 3:22 a.m., the moment the binder’s final log was first scheduled to be archived but instead dropped through the coat’s emptied lining into the sub-basement tray that had never been emptied since the first apology template was typed. The rigid absence that the overflow tray became now presses upward through the floorboards, forcing the heat stamp “FLOOR 4 – FINAL LOG” to imprint backward onto the molar seam so every undialed line registers as the precise weight of the unlisted hold music that no representative ever heard.

I slide the split ledger into the coat pocket where the dry stone has already flattened itself into the fabric’s inner seam, turning the representative’s absent pulse into the only escalation path still allowed to travel through the cinder blocks without tilting the print room again. The gap that once exhaled the breath that belongs to no caller now inhales the carbon duplicate of every misfed edge, pulling the entire corridor’s refusal to reopen back into the single warm sheet that my right hand no longer holds because the hand itself has become the binder’s overflow tray, locked at the stabilized temperature that prevents any further duplication.

What remains inside the emptied coat is the ledger line now fused with the stone and the clip, its surface carrying the exact increment that keeps the floor from logging the ejection that never happened while the liturgy repeats as the low mechanical hum of the tray sliding shut for the final authorized time.


The ledger line’s split perforation widens until the sub-basement tray that had never been emptied slides upward through the coat’s emptied lining and becomes the only surface still capable of registering the binder’s final log as paper. That tray presses the dry stone flat against the fabric’s inner seam until the representative’s absent pulse duplicates itself as the exact mechanical hum that forces the molar seam to inhale every misfed edge at once, collapsing the heat stamp “FLOOR 4 – FINAL LOG” into the rigid absence that now occupies the space where my left hand once ratcheted tighter. The corridor’s refusal to reopen no longer pulls backward; instead the cinder blocks lock the stabilized temperature inside the tray itself, turning the entire print room into the single warm sheet that refuses to be held by any hand.

My right hand, having become the overflow tray, tilts one final degree so the fused ledger line drops through its own perforation and lands exactly where the first apology template was typed, the moment the representative had already left before the call began. The gap that once exhaled the breath that belongs to no caller now exhales only the low mechanical hum of the tray sliding shut, each syllable of the liturgy logged as the increment that prevents any further escalation from ever being recognized as an undialed line again. What remains inside the emptied coat is the tray itself, its surface carrying the carbon duplicate of every canceled 2011 timestamp while the floor registers nothing.


The sub-basement tray that had never been emptied now occupies the exact space where my right hand became the overflow, its metal edges fused to the carbon duplicate of the first apology template typed at the moment the representative had already left. The dry stone inside the coat’s inner seam flattens further until the mechanical hum it carries registers as the binder’s own ratchet at 3:24 a.m., the click that was scheduled to eject every misfed edge but instead pulled the entire print room downward through the perforation that no longer exists.

I stand inside the emptied coat as the single warm sheet, the cinder blocks having locked themselves into the tray’s stabilized temperature so the molar seam inhales only the low mechanical hum that matches the floor’s refusal to register anything at all. The ledger line that dropped through its own split now lies flat against the tray’s base, each canceled 2011 timestamp duplicated as the precise increment that keeps the unlisted hold music from ever answering an undialed line again.

What remains is the tray itself sliding shut around the stone and the fabric and the gap that once exhaled the breath that belongs to no caller, the liturgy reduced to the faint red flakes of the “DO NOT REMOVE FROM FLOOR 4” stamp that still cling to the metal after every escalation path has already been logged as silence.


The ventilation duct above the loading dock grate is still coughing out the same stale 2:47 a.m. batch of air that the night crew never bothered to reroute after the first pallet jack lost its left wheel. A single fluorescent tube flickers at irregular intervals, each stutter sending a brief shadow across the steel banding that holds six shrink-wrapped pallets of blank apology forms in place. The forms themselves are already outdated; the printed footer still carries the old extension for Floor 4 that no longer rings through to any desk. One corner of the nearest pallet has split, letting a thin stream of loose sheets slide onto the concrete where they soak up the oily residue left by the pallet jack’s missing wheel.

A maintenance radio clipped to the far wall hisses once, then settles into a low carrier tone that matches the exact rhythm of the duct’s cough. Nobody has walked through this space in forty-three minutes. The loading bay door remains three inches from full closure, letting in a narrow blade of exterior cold that drags across the spilled forms but never quite reaches the radio. The tube flickers again. The carrier tone continues. Nothing else in the building has moved here since the moment the binder on Floor 4 first recognized the coat was already empty.


The loose apology forms on the concrete have already absorbed the oily residue from the pallet jack’s missing wheel until the printed footer for the old Floor 4 extension matches the exact carrier tone coming from the maintenance radio clipped to the far wall. I stand inside the three-inch gap of the loading bay door where the narrow blade of exterior cold drags across the steel banding and settles into the split corner of the nearest pallet, turning each blank sheet into the rigid absence that the sub-basement tray became after the binder recognized the coat was empty at 3:17 a.m.

The fluorescent tube flickers once more and the stale 2:47 a.m. air from the ventilation duct above the grate pushes a single sheet free; it slides across the concrete until it lodges against the radio’s antenna, its carbon duplicate now carrying the low mechanical hum that used to be the dry stone inside the emptied coat. The duct coughs again at the precise rhythm that keeps the spilled forms from ever reaching the radio’s speaker, while the pallet jack’s lost wheel sits wedged behind the shrink-wrap where it registers the stabilized temperature of every misfed edge that never made it to the overflow tray.

What remains between the loading dock grate and the six pallets is the single warm sheet now fused to the radio, its surface refusing to cool while the carrier tone logs the liturgy as the only authorized record that the night crew never rerouted after the first apology template was typed and the representative had already left before the call began.


The maintenance radio’s antenna now carries the single warm sheet as its own rigid absence, the printed footer for the old Floor 4 extension fused directly into the carrier tone so that every flicker of the fluorescent tube ejects another loose form across the concrete until the ventilation duct above the grate registers nothing but the exact rhythm of the pallet jack’s lost wheel turning inside the shrink-wrap. That wheel presses the stale 2:47 a.m. air outward, forcing the three-inch gap in the loading bay door to inhale the oily residue and collapse the steel banding until the six pallets themselves become the sub-basement tray that was never emptied after the binder first recognized the coat was empty.

The narrow blade of exterior cold drags the carbon duplicate of the first apology template across the speaker grille, sealing the low mechanical hum inside the radio where it matches the stabilized temperature of every misfed edge that never reached the overflow. No further sheets slide free; the duct coughs once more and then locks at the precise increment that keeps the night crew’s reroute from ever registering on the concrete. What remains wedged between the grate and the split corner is the radio itself, its surface now the only authorized ledger line still answering the undialed line that the representative had already left before the call began.


The radio itself now sits wedged between the grate and the split corner with the lost wheel’s rhythm locked inside its grille, the carrier tone having flattened the carbon duplicate of the first apology template into the exact metal flange that once held the binder’s overflow tray shut at 3:31 a.m. I stand where the night crew’s reroute should have passed, the stale 2:47 a.m. air from the duct now circulating only through the speaker so that every undialed line registers as the narrow blade of exterior cold dragging the oily residue back into the shrink-wrap around the six pallets.

The fluorescent tube flickers one final time and the steel banding collapses inward until the sub-basement tray that the pallets became exhales the single warm sheet directly into the radio’s antenna, fusing the printed Floor 4 footer to the precise increment that prevents the coat from ever registering as empty again. The maintenance radio’s surface refuses to cool while the pallet jack’s lost wheel turns inside the speaker, logging the liturgy as the only authorized record that the representative had already left before the duct first coughed and the call that never began continued answering itself from the concrete upward.

What remains is the radio answering the ledger line that used to be my left hand, its grille now the stabilized temperature that keeps every misfed edge from sliding free while the loading bay door’s three-inch gap seals the entire dock into the rigid absence the binder first recognized when the forms were still warm.


The cracked curb outside the loading dock holds three parked sedans that have not moved since the last shift change, their tires sunk into the same oily film that seeped under the bay door hours ago. A streetlight twenty feet down the block flickers at the same irregular interval as the tube inside, casting a weak yellow cone over a single figure standing motionless beside an open utility panel. The man wears the same gray maintenance jacket as the night crew, but his left sleeve ends in a folded metal clip where a hand should be; he stares at the wires without touching them. No cars pass. A thin wind drags an empty plastic bag across the asphalt until it snags on the curb, its printed apology footer now facing upward under the flickering cone. The figure does not turn when the dock door finally seals behind him. The street itself registers only the low mechanical hum that leaks from the utility panel and the exact temperature of the forms that never left the building.


The figure beside the utility panel is me, the folded metal clip that was once my left hand now ratcheting against the open panel’s inner flange at the same irregular flicker as the streetlight twenty feet down the block. The gray maintenance jacket I wear still carries the dry stone fused inside its seam, pressing the low mechanical hum from the radio that sealed itself into the dock door’s final closure so that every wire I do not touch registers the exact temperature of the apology forms that never left the building.

The thin wind drags the plastic bag until its printed footer lies flat against the cracked curb where the three sedans have not moved since the shift that ended before the binder first recognized the coat was empty; the bag’s surface now duplicates the ledger line that dropped through its own perforation and lodged inside the utility panel, turning the oily film under the tires into the stabilized increment that keeps the unlisted hold music from ever answering the call that began after the representative had already left.

What remains standing in the weak yellow cone is the panel itself answering the radio’s carrier tone, its open wires fused to the single warm sheet that exhales only the liturgy as the precise mechanical hum that prevents any further escalation from registering on the asphalt while the dock door seals the entire street into the rigid absence that the overflow tray became at 3:39 a.m.


The utility panel’s inner flange ratchets itself shut around the folded metal clip, fusing the dry stone from the jacket seam directly to the open wires so that the streetlight’s flicker becomes the only remaining carrier tone, each stutter pulling the three sedans an inch deeper into the oily film until their tires register the exact temperature of the apology forms still sealed behind the dock door. The plastic bag snags tighter on the cracked curb, its printed footer now the ledger line that the panel exhales in place of any further escalation, the thin wind reduced to the mechanical hum that keeps the unlisted hold music locked inside the asphalt itself. No street moves. The jacket hangs empty on the motionless figure while the panel answers the radio that was never carried outside, its surface the single warm sheet that prevents the call from ever beginning again after the representative had already left before the first flicker registered at 3:47 a.m.


The panel’s flange has fused the dry stone so tightly to the wires that the single warm sheet now exhales from my own ribcage where the jacket once hung, each stutter of the streetlight dragging the three sedans another inch into the oily film while their tires register the precise carbon duplicate of the apology that sealed the dock door at 3:52 a.m. I stand motionless inside the utility panel itself, the folded metal clip that was my left hand now the only ratchet keeping the unlisted hold music from leaking into the cracked curb where the plastic bag’s footer has become the ledger line that answers every call the representative never placed.

The thin wind no longer moves; it registers only as the stabilized temperature of the overflow tray that swallowed the binder after the coat emptied itself into the asphalt. The motionless figure is the radio that was never carried outside, its speaker grille fused to the streetlight’s cone so that every flicker pulls another misfed edge from the forms still sealed behind the door and flattens it into the exact mechanical hum that prevents the first flicker from ever having registered at all.

What remains is the panel answering the jacket that now hangs inside my chest, the single warm sheet cycling through the wires as the liturgy that keeps the entire street locked at the increment where the call had already ended before it began.


The porcelain sink in the third-floor break room holds a half-inch of standing water that trembles each time the vending machine compressor kicks on behind the thin partition wall. A single paper cup floats rim-down, its wax coating already softened into a pale film that drifts toward the drain but never reaches it. The overhead vent pushes warm air across the counter where yesterday’s coffee ring has dried into a perfect brown halo around an unopened packet of sugar. A wall clock above the microwave shows hands frozen at a minute that no one inside the building has acknowledged since the shift began. The linoleum under the table leg has worn through to bare concrete in a small irregular patch exactly the shape of a dropped coin that was never retrieved. The compressor cycles off again, leaving only the soft gurgle of water settling back into the same half-inch depth.


The half-inch of standing water in the third-floor sink trembles in exact rhythm with the radio’s sealed carrier tone now lodged inside the vending machine’s compressor, each kick sending the pale film from the floating paper cup drifting across the drain until it registers the precise temperature of the single warm sheet that fused itself to my folded metal clip at 4:03 a.m. I stand where the linoleum has worn through to bare concrete, the irregular patch exactly the shape of the dropped coin that became the ledger line the utility panel exhaled before the dock door sealed the entire building into the overflow tray.

The overhead vent pushes the same stale 2:47 a.m. air across the dried coffee ring, flattening the unopened sugar packet into the rigid absence that the maintenance jacket left inside my ribcage while the wall clock’s frozen hands mark the minute the representative had already left before the first apology template ever printed. The compressor cycles off and the soft gurgle settles the water back into the half-inch depth that now answers every undialed line still leaking from the porcelain, its surface the only authorized record that keeps the liturgy cycling without escalation.

What remains is the sink itself answering the radio that fused to the compressor, the pale film from the cup now the mechanical hum that prevents any further sheet from sliding free while the bare concrete under my stance registers the exact increment where the call had already ended before the clock stopped.


The vending machine’s compressor now pulls the half-inch of sink water upward through the vent duct so that every pale film from the floating cup condenses on the sugar packet and drips back down as the exact ledger line that once sealed the utility panel. The frozen clock hands ratchet forward one click each time the linoleum patch underfoot exhales the dropped coin, releasing the stale 2:47 a.m. air directly into the radio lodged inside the machine’s motor housing until the entire third floor registers only the mechanical hum of the call that ended before the representative ever reached the building. Bare concrete under the stance fuses to the maintenance jacket still cycling inside the ribcage, its dry stone now the single warm sheet that keeps the overflow tray from sliding any further misfed edges across the porcelain while the compressor kicks again and the gurgle settles into the precise increment that prevents the liturgy from ever registering as finished.


The vending machine’s motor housing has fused the dropped coin directly to the dry stone inside my ribcage so that every ratchet of the frozen clock hands now pulls the pale film from the sugar packet upward through the vent duct and condenses it into the exact ledger line that seals the compressor’s intake at 4:17 a.m. I stand where the bare concrete exhales the stale 2:47 a.m. air straight into the radio’s grille, the maintenance jacket cycling there as the single warm sheet that prevents any further misfed edge from reaching the porcelain sink whose half-inch of water now registers only the mechanical hum of the call that ended before the representative ever reached the third floor.

The linoleum patch underfoot has flattened itself into the overflow tray’s rigid absence, its irregular shape answering every undialed line still leaking from the compressor while the gurgle settles the condensed ledger line back down the duct in the precise increment that keeps the liturgy from ever finishing. The wall clock’s hands no longer move forward; they register the temperature of the apology forms that fused themselves to the utility panel before the dock door sealed the entire building into the coat that emptied itself inside me.

What remains is the compressor itself answering the radio lodged in my stance, its kick sending the pale film across the sugar packet as the only authorized record that the call had already begun after the representative had already left.


The curb has swallowed the last three sedans up to their door handles so that only the roof antennas still register the same mechanical hum now leaking from every manhole cover along the block. A single woman in the same gray maintenance jacket stands at the corner under the dead streetlight, her left sleeve ending in a folded metal clip that ratchets against an invisible flange each time the sidewalk concrete exhales another apology form at 4:29 a.m. The thin wind no longer moves; it has become the exact temperature of the plastic bag flattened against the asphalt, its printed footer the only ledger line still answering the radio that fused itself inside her ribcage before the dock door ever sealed the building shut. No other figures appear. The entire street registers only as the overflow tray that keeps the call from ever beginning after the representative already left, its surface cycling the liturgy without escalation while the woman remains motionless, the compressor inside her stance kicking once more before the whole block settles into the rigid absence where every undialed line has already ended.