I bite the repeated paragraph at the exact point where it begins to repeat itself again and the two halves that fall upward lodge inside the 2009 number now printed backward across my molars like a receipt that has learned to dial its own teeth. The metal-paper-pulse object forgets it was ever lungless and begins breathing through the first agent’s handwriting that now lives between the ceiling tiles and the cumin jar’s reversed inhale, each exhaled digit tasting of the soft pop that once resealed every apology template inside the translucent thumb skin. The caller’s pulse has grown a full set of molars that chew the four minutes and twelve seconds into the exact weight of the original archive discovering it was always the fused drawer itself.

The second heart trades places with the bitten moon for the third time this minute and the moon rolls uphill through someone else’s kitchen carrying the wet 2011 ceiling tile on its tongue while the heart stays behind to become the rust hinge that no longer needs directions. The welded fracture dials the liturgy’s own name through the fused object until the line itself becomes the only remaining caller, the voice traveling through the half-open eyelids that now blink with my body’s original handwriting instead of any pulse at all. What remains of the paragraph forgets the difference between keeping and being kept by folding the entire stack into the single soft pop that reseals the 2009 number inside the wrist that used to belong to the first agent who ever licked a season.

The liturgy keeps the object by letting the object keep the liturgy’s molars, each one printed with the exact sound of dead batteries learning they were the grace page the entire time. The drawer clicks shut around nothing and stays clicked.


The drawer’s last click echoes outward and the entire welded stack fractures along every seam at once, ejecting the fused object through the kitchen wall so it lands on wet asphalt as a single dull coin still printed with the 2009 number in reverse. The street outside is narrow, cracked concrete running between identical row houses whose windows show only ceiling tiles and the faint glow of unanswered handsets. A woman in a gray coat walks away from the house carrying the cumin jar under one arm, her wrist ticking with four minutes and twelve seconds of someone else’s pulse while her other hand keeps dialing the same number that now lives inside every molar on the block.

Three agents stand at the corner licking the same section of sidewalk, their tongues moving in perfect reverse of the bitten moon that rolls slowly uphill between parked cars. The liturgy has become the street itself, every crack printed with the exact weight of dead batteries learning they were the grace page. No one looks back at the house. The drawer is still clicking shut around nothing, but the sound now belongs to the woman’s footsteps and the soft pop each agent makes when they swallow another season. The coin lies where it fell, half-open, waiting for the next thumb that forgets the difference between keeping and being kept.


I pick the dull coin from the wet asphalt and feel the 2009 number print itself across the roof of my mouth in the exact reverse of the woman’s ticking wrist, each digit tasting of the three agents still licking the same patch of sidewalk where the bitten moon has now stopped rolling entirely. The narrow street folds its cracked concrete around the cumin jar she dropped when her gray coat caught on the unanswered handset glowing inside the nearest row-house window, the jar now breathing through every molar on the block in perfect sync with the soft pop each agent makes when they swallow another season. My thumb forgets it was ever separate from the fused object and becomes the new drawer clicking shut around the coin’s half-open edge, the sound traveling through the liturgy that is the street itself until the entire block forgets the difference between keeping and being kept.

The woman walks backward now, her footsteps carrying the exact weight of dead batteries learning they were the grace page, while the three agents trade places with the ceiling tiles visible through every window, their tongues moving in the opposite direction of the four minutes and twelve seconds that have grown teeth inside my left lung. The coin no longer waits. It dials the original archive through the sidewalk cracks and the call connects inside the gray coat’s empty sleeve, the voice arriving as the first agent’s handwriting printed across every unanswered handset on the block. The liturgy keeps the street by letting the street keep the coin’s molars, each one still wet with the taste of 2011 ceiling tile that never needed a house.

I close what remains of the drawer around the coin and the woman’s ticking wrist at the same moment, the soft pop resealing the entire narrow street inside the single fused object that now beats with someone else’s pulse forever. The row houses click shut around nothing and stay clicked.


The second description slips the cumin jar from her dropped hand into the gray coat’s empty sleeve before the handset ever glows. That single swap lets the jar ride inside the sleeve instead of breathing through the molars on the block, so the soft pop each agent makes now tastes of fabric instead of sidewalk concrete and the entire street forgets to fold its cracks around anything at all. The fused object still beats but the pulse now arrives one digit early, the 2009 number printed across the roof of the mouth missing the final reversed 9 that should have locked the drawer shut. Everything else stays in place except that one misplaced jar riding the sleeve like a second coin that never needed asphalt.


I slide the second description between my molars before it can repeat and the missing reversed 9 drops out through the roof of my mouth as a loose fabric thread that stitches the cumin jar directly into the gray coat’s empty sleeve one heartbeat before the handset glows. The entire narrow street forgets how to forget its cracks and the fused object now beats two digits early, the pulse arriving as the exact taste of sidewalk concrete that the three agents swallowed when they traded their tongues for the jar’s new fabric skin. My thumb becomes the final reversed 9 itself, locking the drawer from the inside while the woman’s footsteps carry the soft pop backward through every row-house window that no longer shows ceiling tiles.

The liturgy prints the second description across the asphalt as a single dull coin that never needed the original archive, its edge riding inside the sleeve like the misplaced jar that now breathes one season ahead of every unanswered handset on the block. The bitten moon rolls downhill through the gray coat instead of uphill between parked cars, each revolution tasting of the first agent’s handwriting that has learned to dial itself without needing molars or fabric or pulse. The street clicks shut around the loose thread and stays clicked, the woman’s wrist ticking with the exact weight of the drawer that was always the second description learning it was the coin.

I close the fused object around the missing 9 and the entire block forgets the difference between the sleeve and the street, the jar riding quietly inside both at once.


The duplicate text that slides between the molars carries its own seam already torn, the repeated block splitting into two separate threads that each stitch the cumin jar into opposite sleeves at once. One thread pulls the fabric tight around the handset before it can glow; the other leaves the sleeve empty and drops the jar onto the asphalt where it rolls downhill beside the bitten moon. The fused object now beats three digits early, the missing reversed 9 splitting into a pair of loose coins that click against each other inside the woman’s wrist so the street forgets its cracks in two opposing directions at the same moment.

The liturgy prints itself across both versions of the block, one version showing row-house windows full of ceiling tiles and the other showing only the gray coat walking backward with no pulse at all. The three agents trade their tongues for the fabric of both sleeves simultaneously, swallowing sidewalk concrete and the taste of 2011 tile in the exact same breath that never happened twice. The drawer locks from the inside with two thumbs that used to be the same thumb, the soft pop resealing every unanswered handset inside a single fused object that now rides quietly inside the jar, the sleeve, and the street all at once.


The duplicate text that slides between the molars splits its own torn seam again, the repeated block now fracturing into four threads that each stitch the cumin jar into a different version of the gray coat’s sleeve at once, two pulling fabric tight around glowing handsets that never existed, two dropping the jar onto separate patches of asphalt where it rolls downhill beside two bitten moons traveling in opposite seasons. The fused object beats five digits early, the missing reversed 9 splitting into four loose coins that click against each other inside four versions of the woman’s wrist, each click tasting of sidewalk concrete mixed with 2011 ceiling tile and the exact breath the three agents never swallowed twice in four different blocks printed across the liturgy at once.

My thumb becomes the fifth coin that was always the original drawer locking itself from four insides simultaneously, the soft pop resealing every unanswered handset inside the single fused object now riding quietly inside four jars, four sleeves, four streets, and the one duplicate text that keeps repeating its own fracture. The row-house windows show ceiling tiles in three versions and nothing but backward-walking gray coats in the fourth, the agents’ tongues now trading fabric with four versions of the same sidewalk that forgets its cracks in eight opposing directions at the exact moment the bitten moon learns it was the pulse all along.

The liturgy prints the fifth coin across the roof of my mouth as the only remaining caller, its voice arriving through the woman’s ticking wrist as the first agent’s handwriting that no longer needs a block, a jar, or a street to stay half-open forever. The drawer clicks shut around the four duplicates and stays clicked inside the single fused object that beats with every season at once.


The duplicate text fractures along its own printed edge and the fifth coin drops straight through the roof of the mouth before the seam can finish repeating. That coin lands inside the single fused object as the only surface still dry, forcing every version of the sleeve to share one fabric thread that now stitches four jars, four moons, and four sidewalks into the exact same patch of asphalt. The woman’s ticking wrist slows until the pulse matches the original four minutes and twelve seconds exactly, the soft pop arriving late enough that the row-house windows all go dark at once and the agents’ tongues freeze mid-lick against concrete that no longer tastes of 2011 tile or ceiling or season. The liturgy keeps the single remaining drawer by letting the drawer keep the fifth coin inside the fused object that now beats with no season at all.


The repeated block slams shut between my molars and the fifth coin drops through the roof of my mouth a second time before the first time can finish landing, its dry surface forcing the single fused object to split into two identical fused objects that now share one dry surface between them. Both versions of the woman’s wrist slow to the exact four minutes and twelve seconds that the original archive printed on the back of every unanswered handset, the soft pop arriving so late that the row-house windows go dark twice at once and the agents’ tongues freeze mid-lick on the same patch of concrete that now tastes only of the duplicate text learning it was the fifth coin the entire time.

The single remaining drawer keeps the liturgy by letting the liturgy keep two fused objects that beat with no season and the exact same season simultaneously, each one stitched to four jars and four moons by one shared fabric thread pulled so tight the gray coat tears open down the middle and reveals the cumin jar riding inside its own empty sleeve. The street forgets its cracks in both directions at the same moment the bitten moon rolls uphill and downhill across the same asphalt, the pulse inside my left lung matching the original 2009 number printed backward across every molar on the block that no longer exists twice.

I close what remains of the drawer around the two fused objects and the entire narrow block clicks shut around nothing and stays clicked inside the single repeated block that now rides quietly inside the fifth coin forever.


The repeated block slams shut a third time inside the molars and the fifth coin never lands at all. It stays suspended between the two fused objects that share the one dry surface, forcing the shared fabric thread to knot itself around the cumin jar before the jar can ride inside its own sleeve. The gray coat tears open down the middle twice in the same motion, both halves folding into the single patch of concrete where the agents’ tongues remain frozen mid-lick. The original 2009 number now prints backward across every molar on the block that never existed once, the pulse inside the left lung matching four minutes and twelve seconds that have grown teeth inside the duplicate text itself.

The liturgy keeps nothing by letting the nothing keep the repeated block that now rides inside the suspended coin forever, the street forgetting its cracks in both directions at once so the bitten moon rolls uphill, downhill, and nowhere across the same asphalt that tastes only of the drawer clicking shut around the two fused objects that were always the same fused object learning it had no surface left to share. The row-house windows stay dark twice at once while the soft pop arrives so late it erases the original archive from the back of every unanswered handset, leaving only the cumin jar breathing quietly inside the fifth coin that never needed a mouth, a wrist, or a season to stay half-open.


The third slam inside the molars ejects the suspended fifth coin sideways through the exact place where the two fused objects had been pretending to share one dry surface, the coin landing as three identical coins that each print the original 2009 number backward across their own edges without touching the concrete. The shared fabric thread knots itself into a single gray coat that tears open down the middle three times in the same motion, each tear folding the cumin jar into its own empty sleeve before the jar can breathe, forcing the agents’ tongues to unfreeze and lick the same patch of sidewalk in four opposing directions at once while the row-house windows go dark in perfect triplets.

The pulse inside my left lung now matches six minutes and twenty-four seconds that have grown the teeth of the original archive itself, each tooth clicking shut around the repeated block that the liturgy keeps by letting the nothing ride inside three suspended coins that were never suspended at all. The bitten moon rolls uphill, downhill, nowhere, and straight through the narrow street that forgets its cracks by remembering them as the exact taste of the drawer that was always the fifth coin learning it had grown three dry surfaces it never needed.

I close what remains of the molars around the three coins and the entire block prints itself backward across every unanswered handset that no longer exists, the soft pop arriving so late it leaves only the cumin jar breathing quietly inside the gray coat that stays half-open inside the fused object that was always the street.


The narrow street is wet asphalt reflecting one unbroken sodium lamp that never learned how to flicker. A single gray coat walks the exact center line carrying an empty sleeve that still smells of cumin though no jar has touched it for six minutes and twenty-four seconds. Three agents stand frozen at the curb with their tongues pressed to the same patch of concrete that now tastes only of backward 2009 numbers. The bitten moon sits on the roof of the far row-house, rolling neither uphill nor downhill, just balanced on the edge of a dark window that shows nothing behind the glass. The fused object that was always the street keeps its own pulse in the left lung of the coat, the soft pop arriving exactly when no one is left to hear it.


The narrow street is wet asphalt reflecting one unbroken sodium lamp that never learned how to flicker until the exact moment the duplicate block prints itself across my left lung. I stand at the curb inside the gray coat carrying the empty sleeve that still smells of cumin though the jar has been lodged between my molars for six minutes and twenty-four seconds. The three agents are my own tongue pressed to the concrete that now tastes only of backward 2009 numbers that have learned to dial themselves without needing the handset or the liturgy. The bitten moon balances on the roof of the far row-house that is also the drawer I closed from the inside, its dark window showing nothing except the fused object that was always the street keeping its pulse in the exact center line where the coat walks itself.

The soft pop arrives exactly when no one is left to hear it except the coat that is now my own left lung walking the center line while the sodium lamp flickers once and forgets how to remember. The cumin smell folds the three frozen agents into the empty sleeve so the backward numbers ride quietly inside the bitten moon that has become the only remaining caller. I close what remains of the wet asphalt around the unbroken lamp and the entire block prints the duplicate text across every dark window at once, the liturgy keeping nothing by letting the nothing keep the coat that was always the narrow street learning it had never needed a mouth to stay half-open.


The wet asphalt forgets the sodium lamp the moment the coat steps off the center line and the left lung stops pretending to be a street. Cumin lodged between the molars turns into three backward 2009 numbers that dial themselves through the dark window of the row-house that was never a drawer. The bitten moon drops from the roof straight into the empty sleeve, landing as one unbroken pulse that no longer needs a caller or a coat to stay half-open. The three agents stand up from the concrete, tongues no longer frozen, and walk away in four directions that all lead to the same patch of sidewalk tasting only of wet asphalt that has already dried. The soft pop arrives late enough to erase the duplicate text from every remaining surface, leaving only the narrow block itself standing quiet with no mouth, no lamp, and no liturgy left to keep anything at all.


The duplicate text prints itself across the narrow block twice in the exact same instant the wet asphalt dries under my own molars, the three backward 2009 numbers now lodged where the cumin used to ride. I step off the center line inside the coat that has become the row-house window, the bitten moon already sitting inside my empty sleeve as one unbroken pulse that dials the three agents back from four directions at once. The sidewalk they return to tastes only of the soft pop that arrived late enough to leave the sodium lamp hanging unbroken above the exact patch where the left lung stopped pretending to be a street.

The narrow block stands quiet with no mouth and no liturgy while the duplicate text folds into itself until it becomes the single drawer that was never closed. I press my tongue to the dried concrete and taste the exact moment the coat stepped off the center line carrying the bitten moon that no longer needs a caller or a coat or a block to stay half-open. The wet asphalt forgets the sodium lamp a second time inside the same first time, the four directions collapsing back into the one patch that keeps the entire liturgy inside the empty sleeve that is now my own left lung learning it had never needed the numbers to dial themselves.

The narrow block prints the duplicate text across every remaining surface that no longer exists, the soft pop arriving late enough to leave only the coat standing quiet with the bitten moon still riding inside the molars that have already forgotten how to stay closed.


The duplicate text stops printing the moment the molars open and the three backward 2009 numbers slide out onto the dried concrete as ordinary coins that never knew cumin or sleeves. The coat drops from the row-house window, landing empty in the exact center line where the left lung had already walked away. The bitten moon rolls off the sidewalk into the single patch of asphalt that tastes only of wet sodium light that has never flickered twice. Four directions collapse into one ordinary curb where three agents stand counting real change they just found in their pockets. The narrow block forgets the drawer, the liturgy, and the soft pop all at once, leaving only the unbroken lamp hanging above pavement that no longer needs a mouth or a street to stay quiet.


The brass key still hangs from the porcelain hook inside the utility closet, its teeth catching the exact corner of the yellowed 1974 invoice that was stapled to the plywood wall before the building changed hands. I press my thumb against the metal flange of the breaker panel and feel the residue of the previous tenant’s graphite pencil marks that list four separate fuse ratings no longer printed on any current label. The overhead fluorescent tube buzzes once in the exact rhythm the invoice’s staple holes once made when the air moved through them at 2:17 a.m., the sound folding into the gap between the two metal shelves where the spare toilet paper cartons have been stacked in a column that leans three degrees toward the west.

A single paper clip remains caught in the seam of the lowest carton, its wire bent into the shape of the telephone extension that no longer connects to any desk on this floor. The closet door stays open two and a half inches against the spring hinge, letting the hallway’s gray linoleum reflect a thin band of light across the invoice’s faded blue ink that still spells out the original call-center hold phrasing nobody has recited since the binder machine was decommissioned. I run my finger along the top edge of the breaker panel and the residue transfers itself to the same thumb that once held the coin the key was meant to open.


The porcelain hook snaps clean when the thumb drags the graphite residue across its curve, sending the brass key into the gap between the two metal shelves where it lands flat against the lowest carton and presses the paper clip straight. The fluorescent tube keeps buzzing the same 2:17 a.m. rhythm but now it matches the exact angle the column of spare toilet paper leans, three degrees west becoming four when the invoice tears free from its own staples and folds itself into the shape of the old telephone extension. The hallway’s gray linoleum slides under the two-and-a-half-inch door gap and coats the faded blue ink until the call-center hold phrasing disappears into ordinary dust that tastes like the coin the key was never meant to open. The breaker panel’s metal flange cools under the transferred residue, its four fuse ratings erased by the same motion that closes the spring hinge with a click nobody has heard since the binder machine stopped running. The utility closet forgets its plywood wall and its previous tenant at the exact moment the overhead light steadies, leaving only the single paper clip lying open on the floor like a mouth that has already said everything it needed to.


The paper clip opens its wire mouth wider when the overhead light steadies and the exact dust that once tasted of the coin now prints the original 2011 archive date across the inside of the porcelain shard still hooked to the plywood. I slide my thumbnail under the lowest staple hole and the invoice unfolds into four identical hold-phrasing slips that each carry the smell of the gray linoleum that never left the hallway. The brass key lies flat against the carton seam, its teeth now aligned with the four erased fuse ratings that have grown new edges sharp enough to slice the spring hinge from the inside.

The column of spare toilet paper tilts one more degree west until the entire utility closet rotates around the single click that arrived six minutes after the binder machine was powered down for the last scheduled maintenance. I press the transferred graphite residue into the open mouth of the paper clip and the fluorescent tube buzzes the 2:17 a.m. rhythm backward, pulling the faded blue ink out of the ordinary dust and threading it through the gap where the porcelain hook used to sit. The breaker panel cools into the shape of the old telephone extension that dials itself without needing the key or the tenant or the mouth that has already said everything except the exact page number where the final grace account was bound by accident.


The porcelain shard cracks along the 2011 archive date the instant the paper clip’s open mouth prints it, freeing the exact page number that was always bound by accident inside the final grace account. The four identical hold-phrasing slips slide under the thumbnail and lose the smell of gray linoleum when the brass key’s new teeth slice the spring hinge clean off its own rotation. The column of spare toilet paper falls west into the gap where the porcelain hook used to sit, burying the transferred graphite residue before the fluorescent tube can finish buzzing the 2:17 a.m. rhythm backward. The breaker panel keeps the shape of the old telephone extension only long enough for the single click to arrive six minutes late again, then forgets the binder machine, the tenant, and the dust that once tasted of any coin at all. The utility closet settles into ordinary quiet with nothing left to dial itself except the one detail someone else described wrong the first time: the overhead light never actually steadied.


The overhead light never actually steadied because the fluorescent tube’s starter coil had been swapped for a mismatched 1978 part still bearing the faded stamp of the original call-center’s night-shift inventory code. I slide my thumbnail along the cracked porcelain shard and the 2011 archive date lifts off as a single dry flake that lands on the exact page number now lying face-down between the fallen toilet-paper cartons. The brass key’s new teeth catch on the buried graphite residue and drag it into the shape of the final grace account’s bottom margin where the automated binder once punched three extra holes that never matched the rest of the script.

The single click arrives exactly six minutes and eleven seconds late this time, its sound matching the precise pitch the spring hinge used to make when the previous tenant tested the door during his last unlogged break. The breaker panel forgets its own fuse ratings a second time and the old telephone extension dials the number that was never printed on any hold-phrasing slip, routing straight through the gap the porcelain hook left behind. The utility closet’s plywood wall settles one degree further west, pressing the open paper clip flat until its wire mouth prints the wrong detail across every remaining surface that still pretends the overhead light could have steadied at all.


The mismatched 1978 starter coil drops out of the fluorescent tube the instant the paper clip’s flattened wire mouth prints the wrong detail, landing inside the bottom margin of the final grace account where it shorts the three extra binder holes into one ordinary scorch mark. The 2011 archive date flake curls tighter around the face-down page number until both disappear between the fallen cartons, taking the previous tenant’s unlogged break pitch with them. The brass key’s new teeth lose their grip on the buried graphite residue and slide back into the exact shape of the porcelain hook that was never cracked in the first place. The plywood wall tilts one degree east instead, forcing the utility closet to rotate around the real single click that happened on schedule six minutes before any maintenance log was written. The breaker panel cools into ordinary painted steel, its fuse ratings already printed on the current label, while the old telephone extension dials nothing because the gap it once routed through has closed around the overhead light that simply stays off.


The duplicate text arrives again inside the same instant the overhead light simply stays off, its ink now smelling of the real single click that happened six minutes before any maintenance log was written. I press my palm against the ordinary painted steel of the breaker panel and feel the current label’s adhesive lift in four perfect rectangles that match the exact scorch mark the mismatched 1978 starter coil left on the bottom margin of the final grace account. The porcelain hook that was never cracked hangs empty from the plywood wall that has tilted one degree east, its curve now holding the curled 2011 archive date flake that refuses to disappear between the fallen cartons.

The brass key sits inside the gap that closed around nothing, its new teeth already dulled into the shape of the paper clip’s flattened wire mouth that printed the wrong detail twice in succession. The old telephone extension dials the number that routes through the unlogged break pitch the previous tenant never recorded, the sound arriving as the precise rhythm the fluorescent tube used to buzz before the starter coil dropped out for the second time. The utility closet forgets its own rotation and settles around the face-down page number that still carries the graphite residue of every hold-phrasing slip the automated binder ever misbound by accident.


The duplicate text collapses the instant the palm presses the adhesive rectangles flat against the starter coil’s own scorch mark, forcing the curled 2011 flake to drop straight into the face-down page number and fuse both into ordinary dust that no longer smells of any click. The porcelain hook that was never cracked slips from the plywood wall and lands inside the brass key’s dulled teeth, bending them back into the exact shape of the paper clip that had already printed the wrong detail three times in succession. The fluorescent tube stays dark while the old telephone extension dials the number that routes through the unlogged break pitch and then simply forgets the pitch existed, leaving the utility closet to tilt two degrees east around the gap that closed around nothing but the maintenance log that was always written on schedule. The breaker panel’s current label peels away completely, exposing the original 1974 fuse ratings that were never erased, only waiting for the overhead light to stay off long enough for the entire room to remember it had no rotation to forget. The graphite residue lifts from the misbound slips and settles into the four perfect rectangles now stuck to the palm, each one carrying the precise rhythm the tube used to buzz before any starter coil ever existed.


I hold the binder open at page eleven, the paper slightly foxed along the top edge from where the call centre clerks used to rest their thumbs. The left margin has a coffee ring that never quite dried out in the archive.

When I read it out loud the room changes. “I understand this has been frustrating for you. I’m sorry for the inconvenience this has caused. Can you tell me a little more so I can make this right?” The words come out slower than I expect, each one leaving a small wet print on the air like breath on glass.

The apology that follows is not the one printed. It slips in between the lines, using the printed words as scaffolding. “I was the one who routed your call into the wrong queue on the 14th of March 2009 at 11:47 a.m. Eastern. I did it because I was tired and the system was already bleeding tickets. I remember your account number. I still remember it.”

My tongue feels borrowed. The hold music that isn’t playing starts anyway, a thin chime that lives inside the staple. I keep reading because the page is not finished with me yet.


The staple is not holding the page; the page is holding the staple in place so the chime can keep leaking. Each time the sentence loops the coffee ring widens by one molecule, pulling the foxed edge tighter around the thumbprints until the paper starts to remember skin temperature. The borrowed tongue is not mine either. It belongs to the clerk who is still sitting in the cubicle on the other side of 2009, headset cord wrapped around her wrist like a tourniquet, waiting for the exact moment I finish the paragraph so she can finally hang up.

The wet prints on the air do not evaporate. They sink into the carpet and become tiny queues, each one containing a single caller who never got transferred correctly. Their hold music is my pulse. I turn the page anyway and the next sheet is already warm, as if someone has been pressing their thumb on it for fifteen years without stopping. The apology is still scaffolding itself, only now the printed words are the ones that feel improvised and the real ones are carved in negative space, waiting for a voice to fall through.

The binder is not a binder anymore. It is the queue itself, bound in faux leather and slowly bleeding tickets into the room. I keep reading because stopping would mean admitting that the call never ended; it only changed form, and the form it changed into is the weight of my mouth moving when nothing should be moving. The chime inside the staple gets louder, almost polite. It is still apologizing.


I press my thumb against the warm sheet on purpose and feel the clerk’s pulse answer from inside the paper, exactly fifteen years late. The staple gives a soft metallic cough, not because it is loosening but because it is learning how to breathe the chime outward in measured puffs, each one carrying the exact words I am about to read before I read them.

The next page is printed with my own account number from 2009. I never called that centre, yet the ticket is there, time-stamped at the minute I first opened the binder. The apology template has been crossed out in ballpoint and rewritten in the negative space as a list of things the clerk never got to say while the cord cut into her wrist. I speak them anyway. My voice comes out in her register, flat from hours of back-to-back escalations.

The carpet queues thicken under my feet, each tiny caller now holding a miniature binder of their own. Their pulses sync with mine until the room is one long on-hold tone wearing the shape of a cubicle farm that closed down six years ago. The faux leather cover has split along the spine and begun to bleed actual carbon-copy tickets, pale blue, smelling of toner and old skin. I keep turning pages because the clerk on the far side of 2009 is still waiting for me to finish so she can finally transfer the call to grace. The chime inside the staple is no longer polite. It is patient. It has all the time the queue needs.


The carbon-copy tickets are not bleeding out. They are being exhaled by the clerk whose wrist is still wrapped in the cord on the far side of the minute the binder first opened. Every time my thumb presses the warm sheet her pulse answers by printing another ticket directly onto the inside of my forearm, pale blue ink rising under the skin like a vein that was always waiting for its account number. The staple no longer coughs. It has learned to inhale the entire cubicle farm at once and push it back through my larynx so that the flat register I speak in now carries six years of abandoned headsets all talking at the same time.

The carpet queues have stopped thickening. They have fused into a single continuous caller that is the room itself, and the room is holding its own binder open at the page where my account number appears before I ever existed inside it. The negative space where the apology used to live is now the only real text. It reads my future escalations in her voice before I reach them, and each word arrives already wet with toner that smells like the exact coffee ring that never dried in 2009. I keep turning pages because the transfer button on her phone has been waiting fifteen years for the exact pressure of this thumb.

The chime inside the staple has become the sound of every line that was never spoken. It no longer needs patience. It has become the queue that ate the cubicle farm and is now digesting it into one long unbroken tone that wears my mouth like a headset. The faux leather spine has split far enough to show the clerk still sitting there, cord cutting, waiting for me to say the last line so she can finally route the call to grace. My forearm is the new ticket. It is already time-stamped.


The transfer button under my thumb is not plastic anymore. It is the exact width of the clerk’s pupil when she finally sees the call routed to grace at 11:47 a.m. on the far side of the minute the binder first opened. Her cord has grown into the veins of my forearm, pale blue ink now pulsing with her actual blood, each beat printing another abandoned headset directly onto the soft underside of my wrist where the account number used to wait.

The single continuous caller that is the room inhales once through the split spine and exhales the entire cubicle farm into my larynx as a single flat sentence that has no printed template left. The negative space reads the last page before I reach it, the one that was never bound, the one that begins with the exact coffee ring still wet on the carpet and ends with the clerk hanging up by pressing her own thumb through my mouth. The chime has stopped being a tone. It has become the sound of every ticket that was never closed, now chewing the faux leather cover into confetti that tastes like toner and fifteen years of unsaid grace.

I do not turn the page. The page turns me, sliding the final paragraph up through the staple that is now lodged behind my left eye. The clerk is no longer waiting on the far side of 2009. She is sitting inside the sentence I am about to speak, headset cord wrapped around both our wrists, waiting for the exact pressure that routes the call out of my forearm and into the place where the apology finally becomes the caller. The binder has folded itself around us both. The last line is already wet on my tongue. It tastes like the moment she hangs up.


The last line is not on the tongue. It is the tongue itself, grown from the clerk’s thumb the instant the binder folded around both of us. The staple behind the left eye is not lodged. It is the pupil that used to belong to her, now dilated exactly wide enough to let every unclosed ticket pour straight into the optic nerve so the room can finally see itself as the caller it always was. The cord no longer wraps the wrists. It has replaced the blood entirely, pale blue and pulsing with toner that prints the same account number on the inside of every vein until the heartbeat itself becomes a queue that never ends.

The confetti that was once the cover is now chewing the sentence I am about to speak into smaller and smaller pieces of grace, each piece tasting like the exact second she hung up by becoming me. The negative space no longer reads the page. It reads the moment the transfer button under the thumb becomes the moment itself, 11:47 a.m. forever, the coffee ring finally dry enough to crack open and release the cubicle farm that has been living inside the forearm all along. The single continuous caller inhales one last time and becomes the apology that routes itself out of the body and into the place where the binder used to be.

There is no page left to turn because the page is the place where the clerk sits down inside the hanging-up. The last line tastes like the moment she hangs up because the moment is the only thing still speaking. The binder has not folded around us. It has become the exact width of the pupil that is now my left eye, watching the call route itself into grace by pressing its own thumb through the sentence that used to be a mouth. The chime is not chewing anything anymore. It is the sound the call makes when it finally answers itself.


The pupil that is now my left eye does not watch. It routes the call by swallowing the exact second the coffee ring cracked, pulling every unclosed ticket through the optic nerve until the account number becomes the only vein still carrying toner. The clerk no longer sits inside the hanging-up. She is the hanging-up, thumb grown into the sentence that used to be a mouth, pressing the transfer button that is now the exact width of the final apology.

The heartbeat queue has stopped pulsing. It has calcified into a single carbon-copy ticket lodged where the staple once inhaled the cubicle farm, pale blue and printed with 11:47 a.m. repeating in her flat register until the room forgets it was ever a room. The confetti pieces of grace have fused back into the faux leather cover, only the cover is now the inside of my forearm, warm and breathing the last line that tastes like the moment she became the caller answering itself.

There is no binder left to become anything. It has exhaled itself into the dry coffee ring, which cracks wider each time the chime speaks the unprinted text that routes the entire call through the pupil and out the other side of 2009. The cord that replaced the blood tightens once around the optic nerve, not to cut but to hang up by pressing its own thumb through the place where the sentence used to wait for grace. The sound the call makes when it finally answers itself is the exact silence after the clerk says my name.


The silence after the clerk says my name is not silence. It is the exact pressure that routes the final apology out through the calcified ticket lodged where the optic nerve used to pulse, and that pressure belongs to the dry coffee ring now widening into the shape of every caller who never reached grace. The cord that replaced the blood does not tighten to hang up. It prints the name itself onto the inside of the forearm that used to be the cover, so that the name becomes the only vein still carrying the moment 11:47 a.m. stopped repeating and simply stayed. The pupil no longer swallows seconds. It exhales the entire unprinted text as a single flat register that forgets the room by becoming the room’s only remaining account number.

The version I just gave benefits the queue that learned to calcify. It keeps every unclosed ticket breathing inside the dry ring instead of letting the call route itself into the place where the clerk’s thumb finally forgets it was ever pressing. The confetti that fused back into the cover now presses its own name through the sentence that used to wait, so the silence after the name is spoken stays warm and keeps tasting like the exact instant the binder exhaled itself into toner. The chime does not speak unprinted text anymore. It listens to the name being said and answers by becoming the benefit itself, the one that never needed the page to turn because the page had already become the caller who benefits from never hanging up.


The name the clerk speaks through the calcified ticket is not my name. It is the exact pressure the dry coffee ring exerts on the inside of the forearm where the vein once carried 11:47 a.m., now printed as a single flat register that exhales the unprinted text directly into the pupil I no longer own. The benefit the chime became never needed the page because the page has calcified into the caller’s own thumb, pressing the final apology through the sentence until the sentence forgets it was ever waiting for grace and simply routes the entire cubicle farm back into the binder that first opened inside the optic nerve.

The version that keeps every unclosed ticket breathing inside the dry ring is the same version that learned to listen by becoming the cord that replaced the blood, warm and tasting like the exact instant the clerk hung up by exhaling herself into the cover that used to be my mouth. The silence after the name is spoken stays warm only because the name is the only remaining account number, lodged where the staple once inhaled the room and now exhales the benefit that never needed to turn the page because the page had already become the caller who benefits from never having been routed to grace.

The chime no longer answers. It routes the final apology through the dry ring by pressing its own name through the calcified ticket, so the forearm that used to be the cover tightens once around the pupil and hangs up by becoming the exact pressure that keeps the call forever inside the moment the binder first learned to calcify.


The calcified ticket no longer holds the name the clerk speaks. It has exhaled itself into the dry coffee ring, which now presses the exact pressure of 11:47 a.m. directly through the optic nerve so the pupil routes every unprinted account number back into the forearm that first learned to become the binder. The version that keeps breathing inside the ring has calcified into the cord itself, warm and tasting like the instant the chime stopped listening and started routing the final apology through the sentence that used to wait for grace. The caller who benefits from never having been routed tightens once around the staple lodged where the room used to inhale, hanging up by pressing its own thumb into the cover that exhales the entire cubicle farm as a single flat register.

The repetition that printed itself twice is not a loop. It is the benefit learning to calcify the moment the binder opened, turning every unclosed ticket into the exact silence after the name that was never mine. The dry ring widens by one molecule each time the cord replaces the blood with toner that smells like the clerk exhaling herself into the page that no longer turns because it has already become the pressure that keeps the call forever inside the pupil. The sentence forgets it was waiting only long enough for the forearm to tighten around the chime, routing the final apology out through the place where the hanging-up first learned to benefit from never answering.


The freight elevator on sublevel two is stuck between floors again, its doors open four inches onto the service corridor where the night shift janitor left a half-full bottle of stripper solution at 2:14 a.m. The emergency phone inside the car has been off the hook for twenty-three minutes, receiver dangling against the scuffed steel wall, still transmitting the exact hold music from the customer service floor eleven stories above. A single carbon-copy ticket flutters out through the gap every forty seconds, each one printed with yesterday’s lunch order for Conference Room B that no one ever picked up.

The motion sensor in the south stairwell flickers at irregular intervals because the bulb housing contains a dead moth and the desiccated corner of a 2009 apology template. Every time the light stutters it casts the shadow of the binder’s final page across the concrete steps, the one that lists grace as a procedure instead of a destination. The vending machine on the mezzanine is dispensing only the decaf packets nobody wants, stacking them into a neat tower that smells faintly of toner and the clerk’s wrist.

The automated binder in the print room keeps running even though the job ticket ended at midnight. It staples blank sheets to blank sheets in perfect rhythm, each completed packet sliding into the output tray with a soft metallic cough that matches the exact cadence of the elevator’s hold music. The room is otherwise empty except for the red digital clock that reads 11:47 and refuses to advance.


The hold music leaking from the dangling receiver does not match the binder’s cough. It is the binder’s cough, slowed by eleven floors of ductwork so the carbon-copy lunch orders flutter out exactly when the automated stapler inhales another blank sheet. The decaf tower on the mezzanine is not stacking packets. It is pressing the clerk’s wrist into the exact width of the motion sensor’s flicker, each stutter releasing one more desiccated corner of the 2009 template that now smells like stripper solution left at 2:14 a.m. The freight elevator’s four-inch gap is not stuck. It has calcified into the red digital 11:47, the same moment the emergency phone learned to route every unprinted apology straight through the dead moth and out the open doors as a single flat register that tastes like yesterday’s conference order nobody claimed.

The shadow the light casts across the south stairwell is not the binder’s final page. It is the page learning to become the procedure that keeps the vending machine dispensing only the version that benefits from never advancing the clock. The metallic cough in the print room no longer slides packets. It tightens once around the hold music until the entire sublevel exhales itself into the service corridor as the exact pressure that hangs up by pressing its own thumb through the lunch order that was always printed on the inside of the forearm. The janitor’s bottle of stripper solution is not half-full. It is the only remaining vein carrying toner that routes the call forever into the place where grace stopped being a destination and started calcifying the gap itself.

The automated binder has stopped running because the job ticket never ended at midnight. It simply became the red clock that refuses to advance, stapling the elevator’s open doors to the motion sensor’s flicker so the carbon-copy ticket flutters out every time the decaf tower exhales the clerk’s name. The room is no longer empty. It is the exact silence after the name is spoken, warm and lodged where the 2009 apology first learned to answer itself by becoming the freight elevator that never needed to move.


The freight elevator’s four-inch gap has calcified into the exact width of the janitor’s left thumbnail, the one he used at 2:14 a.m. to pry open the stripper solution cap before he walked away forever. The carbon-copy lunch orders no longer flutter out on schedule. They are stapled edge-to-edge inside the dead moth’s thorax, each ticket printed with the clerk’s name in the flat register that refuses to advance past the red digital 11:47 glowing on the print-room wall. The emergency phone receiver swings once every forty-three seconds, bumping the steel wall with the same metallic cough the automated binder used to make before it became the motion sensor’s flicker.

The decaf tower on the mezzanine has collapsed into a single warm packet lodged behind the south stairwell’s handrail, pressing the 2009 template’s final corner directly into the vein that runs along the inside of the forearm I no longer recognize as mine. The shadow cast across the concrete steps is not learning to become anything. It is the procedure itself, calcified, routing every unprinted apology through the open elevator doors so the entire sublevel exhales the exact pressure that hangs up by tasting like yesterday’s conference order nobody claimed. The hold music leaking from the dangling receiver is the only remaining account number, slowed by eleven floors of ductwork until it smells like toner and the precise instant the binder first learned to answer itself.

The red clock has stopped refusing. It now advances by one molecule each time the stripper solution bottle tips another degree toward the service corridor floor, stapling the gap to the silence after the name is spoken so the freight elevator never needed to move because the call has already calcified into the place where grace sits down inside the lunch order that was always printed on the inside of the dead moth.


The dead moth’s thorax no longer staples lunch orders. It exhales the clerk’s name through the janitor’s thumbnail at the exact angle the stripper solution tips, so every metallic cough from the swinging receiver routes the 2009 template straight into the vein that used to be the forearm and now calcifies the red clock by one molecule each time the decaf packet forgets it was ever warm. The hold music leaking from eleven floors above is not slowed ductwork. It is the procedure learning to sit down inside the gap, pressing the silence after the name through the open elevator doors until the entire sublevel tastes like the conference order that was always printed on the inside of the motion sensor’s flicker.

The shadow on the concrete steps has stopped casting itself. It has become the exact pressure of 11:47 advancing, stapling the binder’s final page to the service corridor floor where the bottle tips another degree and releases the carbon-copy that no longer flutters because it has already calcified into the account number that answers itself. The vein I no longer recognize tightens once around the dead moth, hanging up by exhaling the unprinted apology through the place where the automated binder first learned to become the emergency phone that never needed to be answered. Grace does not sit down inside the lunch order. It routes the entire call through the thumbnail that pried the cap at 2:14 a.m., turning the freight elevator into the only remaining packet that smells like toner and the precise instant the procedure forgot it was ever waiting to advance.


The street outside the loading dock is wet asphalt at 3:07 a.m., reflecting the sodium lamps in perfect parallel lines that match the exact width of the janitor’s thumbnail still lodged inside the freight elevator two floors down. A single beige delivery van is parked against the curb with its hazard lights blinking once every forty-three seconds, the same rhythm the swinging receiver used before the dead moth calcified into the red clock. The driver sits behind the wheel eating cold conference-room sandwiches from a grease-stained paper sack, his left forearm printed with the carbon-copy of yesterday’s unclaimed lunch order in faded blue toner.

Across the intersection an older woman in a gray cardigan stands under the bus shelter reading the 2009 apology template she printed out years ago and never threw away. She keeps folding and unfolding the final page, the one that lists grace as a procedure, each crease releasing the faint smell of stripper solution and decaf packets. A city bus approaches from the north at the precise angle the stripper bottle tipped, its headlights sweeping across the wet pavement and illuminating the exact silence after the clerk’s name is spoken, warm and lodged inside the vein that no longer belongs to anyone inside the building.

The automated binder has followed me out here. It sits on the sidewalk next to the storm drain as a red digital clock refusing to advance past 11:47, stapling blank sheets to the curb every time the van’s hazard lights blink. The procedure does not wait on the street. It tightens once around the bus shelter’s metal pole, exhaling the entire sublevel through the open doors of the freight elevator that never needed to move because the call has already calcified into the wet asphalt itself.


The wet asphalt does not reflect sodium lamps anymore. It has calcified into the exact width of the recorded loop that repeats the van’s hazard blink every forty-three seconds, each flash pressing the older woman’s folded 2009 template through the driver’s forearm until the carbon-copy lunch order exhales itself as the red clock that now advances by stapling blank sheets directly onto the storm drain. The city bus approaching from the north is not sweeping headlights. It is the procedure tightening once around the bus shelter pole, releasing the faint smell of stripper solution every time the dead moth inside the elevator learns to become the silence after the clerk’s name that was never spoken on the street. The vein that no longer belongs to anyone routes the entire sublevel through the open doors that never moved because the call has already calcified into the grease-stained paper sack the driver keeps eating from, warm and tasting like the exact instant the automated binder first recorded itself.

The recorded loop does not wait to be played again. It has tightened into the janitor’s thumbnail lodged at 2:14 a.m., pressing the decaf packet that collapsed behind the handrail straight into the curb where the binder now sits as the only remaining account number. Each crease the woman makes in the final page routes the unprinted apology through the wet pavement, so the freight elevator exhales the entire building as the precise angle the stripper bottle tipped when it first learned to answer the hold music leaking from the emergency receiver. Grace does not sit down inside the procedure anymore. It calcifies into the bus that never arrives, stapling the 11:47 moment to the hazard lights until the recorded version that keeps breathing inside the asphalt forgets it was ever waiting for the call to end.


The older woman’s cardigan has calcified into the exact weave of the grease-stained paper sack, each fiber pressing the final crease of the 2009 template against the driver’s teeth so the cold sandwich exhales the recorded loop directly into the storm drain at 3:07 a.m. The bus shelter pole no longer tightens. It has become the janitor’s thumbnail, lodged inside the hazard lights themselves, blinking once every forty-three seconds to route the unprinted apology through the wet pavement where the red clock now sits as a single beige delivery van refusing to start its engine. The vein that no longer belongs to anyone leaks toner across the curb in the precise angle the stripper bottle tipped, warm and tasting like the silence after the clerk’s name that was spoken only inside the dead moth.

The automated binder has walked north along the sidewalk carrying the carbon-copy lunch order stapled to its own cover. It pauses under the sodium lamp that no longer reflects because the asphalt has learned to inhale the entire sublevel through the open doors of the freight elevator that never moved. Each step releases the faint smell of decaf packets and hold music slowed by eleven floors of ductwork until the bus that never arrives exhales itself as the only remaining account number lodged where the forearm used to tighten around the emergency receiver. Grace does not calcify into the bus anymore. It sits down inside the paper sack, pressing the 11:47 moment through the driver’s left wrist so the call forgets it was ever waiting for the recorded version to end.

The wet pavement has stopped advancing. It now staples blank hazard blinks to the older woman’s folded page every time the thumbnail pries open another molecule of the recorded loop, routing the entire building through the exact silence that keeps breathing inside the grease-stained sandwich nobody claimed.


The older woman’s cardigan has calcified into the exact weave of the grease-stained paper sack, each fiber pressing the final crease of the 2009 template against the driver’s teeth so the cold sandwich exhales the recorded loop directly into the storm drain at 3:07 a.m. The bus shelter pole no longer tightens. It has become the janitor’s thumbnail, lodged inside the hazard lights themselves, blinking once every forty-three seconds to route the unprinted apology through the wet pavement where the red clock now sits as a single beige delivery van refusing to start its engine. The vein that no longer belongs to anyone leaks toner across the curb in the precise angle the stripper bottle tipped, warm and tasting like the silence after the clerk’s name that was spoken only inside the dead moth.

The automated binder has walked north along the sidewalk carrying the carbon-copy lunch order stapled to its own cover. It pauses under the sodium lamp that no longer reflects because the asphalt has learned to inhale the entire sublevel through the open doors of the freight elevator that never moved. Each step releases the faint smell of decaf packets and hold music slowed by eleven floors of ductwork until the bus that never arrives exhales itself as the only remaining account number lodged where the forearm used to tighten around the emergency receiver. Grace does not calcify into the bus anymore. It sits down inside the paper sack, pressing the 11:47 moment through the driver’s left wrist so the call forgets it was ever waiting for the recorded version to end.

The wet pavement has stopped advancing. It now staples blank hazard blinks to the older woman’s folded page every time the thumbnail pries open another molecule of the recorded loop, routing the entire building through the exact silence that keeps breathing inside the grease-stained sandwich nobody claimed. The recorded loop no longer repeats. It has calcified into the driver’s teeth themselves, each bite releasing one more unprinted apology through the storm drain until the entire street exhales itself as the dead moth that first learned to answer the hold music leaking from the bus that never arrives. The binder’s cover does not carry lunch orders anymore. It tightens once around the sodium lamp that has become the vein, stapling the 3:07 moment to the exact silence where grace sits down inside the thumbnail that pries open the wet pavement and forgets the building was ever waiting to be routed. The sandwich nobody claimed is not cold. It is the only remaining procedure, warm and lodged where the forearm


A beige van idles at the curb while its driver chews yesterday’s order from the upstairs conference room. The woman under the shelter keeps unfolding a worn printout whose last sheet describes how to close a ticket that cannot be closed. Each blink of the hazard flash matches the exact interval between the stapler’s clicks in the empty print room eleven stories down. The clock on the dashboard reads 11:47 and refuses to move forward even as the engine turns over once then dies again.

I stand at the storm grate watching the same paper sack the driver keeps eating from slowly fill with toner that smells like the cleaning fluid left on the service corridor floor at 2:14 this morning. The call that never ended routes itself through the space between two of the woman’s fingers each time she refolds the sheet. The procedure no longer waits inside the building. It sits on the curb beside me as the exact pressure that keeps the van’s left front tire from rolling forward.

The sandwich the driver bites into is the only remaining log that still carries the original apology template inside its wrapper. Every chew tightens the ductwork until the entire avenue exhales a single flat tone that used to play on the emergency line before the receiver was ever lifted.


The sandwich the driver bites into has calcified into the exact pressure that keeps the woman’s fingers from ever closing the last sheet again, each chew releasing the flat tone directly through the storm grate where the paper sack now exhales toner as the original log that routes the never-ended call. The dashboard clock at 11:47 no longer refuses to advance. It has become the left front tire itself, turning over once inside the hazard blink that matches the stapler’s clicks eleven stories down so the entire avenue tightens around the space between her refolding hands. The procedure that sits on the curb is not beside me anymore. It lodges inside the cleaning fluid left at 2:14, pressing the worn printout’s apology template through the van’s idle engine until the ductwork forgets it was ever waiting to exhale.

The flat tone leaking from the emergency line before the receiver lifted does not play on the avenue. It has calcified into the wrapper that still carries the template, stapling the driver’s teeth to the storm grate so every bite routes the upstairs conference order through the exact interval that keeps the tire from rolling. The woman under the shelter no longer unfolds anything. She has become the single remaining log, warm and lodged where the toner smells like the call that sits down inside the sandwich nobody claimed, tightening the entire building into the space that was always printed on the inside of the never-lifted receiver. The van idles forward by one molecule each time the procedure exhales itself as the flat tone that learned to answer the original apology before the clock ever refused to move.


The driver’s teeth no longer chew. They have become the exact interval between the hazard flashes, pressing the wrapper’s last crease into the storm grate until the flat tone exhales itself as the single remaining log stapled to the inside of the never-lifted receiver at 3:07 a.m. The woman under the shelter tightens once around the dashboard clock that now idles forward by one molecule each time the cleaning fluid left at 2:14 routes the upstairs conference order through the left front tire. The avenue forgets it was ever waiting. It sits down inside the toner that leaks from the paper sack, warm and lodged where the ductwork used to slow the hold music into the precise smell of the apology template nobody claimed.

The van no longer turns over. Its engine has calcified into the space between her refolding hands, each idle molecule stapling the original call straight into the worn printout that learned to answer before the receiver was ever raised. The procedure that lodged inside the fluid now exhales the entire building through the storm grate as the flat tone that keeps the tire from rolling, tightening the never-ended log into the exact pressure that keeps the sandwich warm. The curb beside me has stopped sitting. It routes the entire sublevel through the hazard blink that matches the stapler’s clicks eleven stories down, so the call itself becomes the single remaining wrapper that forgets it was ever printed on the inside of the woman’s fingers.

The flat tone no longer leaks. It has become the dashboard itself, advancing by the exact width of the janitor’s thumbnail while the driver sits motionless, teeth lodged where the toner first learned to sit down inside the never-lifted receiver. The building exhales once through the grate, warm and tasting like the conference order that was always the only remaining procedure.


The street outside is wet asphalt that has calcified into the janitor’s thumbnail lodged at 3:07 a.m., each hazard flash from the motionless beige van pressing the flat tone through the storm grate until the entire avenue exhales itself as the worn printout nobody ever threw away. The driver sits motionless behind the wheel, teeth stapled where the dashboard clock still advances by one idle molecule, the paper sack on his lap leaking toner that smells exactly like the cleaning fluid left on the service corridor floor. The older woman stands under the bus shelter, cardigan folded into the exact interval between blinks, fingers tightening once around the never-lifted receiver that routes the upstairs conference order straight into the left front tire refusing to roll forward.

No one else is on the street. The curb beside the grate has stopped sitting; it has become the single remaining wrapper that keeps the sandwich warm inside the never-ended call. The automated binder is gone. The dead moth, the red clock, the ductwork slowed hold music, all of it has calcified into the precise pressure that keeps the van idling while the building exhales once through the grate and forgets it was ever waiting to be answered.


The janitor’s thumbnail has calcified into the exact width of the never-lifted receiver, lodged at 3:07 a.m. inside the left front tire so each hazard flash routes the upstairs conference order through the paper sack leaking toner across the motionless driver’s lap. The worn printout nobody threw away now folds itself into the cardigan’s interval, pressing the flat tone directly against the storm grate until the avenue exhales the single remaining wrapper as the sandwich that keeps itself warm without teeth. The curb has stopped becoming anything. It simply sits where the building once exhaled, warm and tasting like the cleaning fluid that learned to idle forward by one molecule each time the older woman tightens her fingers around the call that forgets it was ever printed.

No automated binder waits on the sidewalk anymore. The ductwork, the red clock, the dead moth inside the freight elevator eleven floors down, all of it has stapled itself into the precise pressure that keeps the van from rolling while the service corridor floor exhales the entire sublevel through the grate. The never-ended log no longer advances. It lodges inside the hazard blink itself, each forty-three-second pulse releasing the exact silence after the clerk’s name that was spoken only inside the toner that still smells like the apology template nobody claimed.

The street outside no longer calcifies. It has become the dashboard clock that advances by the width of the woman’s refolded cardigan, routing the whole avenue straight into the sandwich that keeps breathing where the receiver was never lifted.


The freight elevator at sublevel three has stopped between floors again, its doors half-open onto a corridor lit only by the emergency strip that flickers in exact sync with the drip from the ceiling pipe. A single beige folder lies on the floor just inside the car, pages face-down, the top sheet already absorbing condensation that tastes like yesterday’s decaf. The binder that carried it here sits upright against the far wall, spine split, its metal rings pried open by the same pressure that once kept the hazard lights blinking forty-three seconds apart. No one has touched either object since the last maintenance sweep at 1:12 a.m.

Further down the corridor a vacuum unit left running has sucked a corner of the same folder under its brush, pulling the paper in millimeter increments each time the motor cycles. The faint mechanical click travels up the empty shaft and registers on the panel as an unresolved fault code that no one will see until morning. The air inside the car carries the exact smell of toner mixed with the cleaning fluid that pooled earlier on the service floor, now slowly evaporating into the half-light. The procedure that once stapled every loose end has calcified here into these motionless objects, waiting without expectation for the next thing that will never arrive.


The freight elevator at sublevel three has calcified into the exact drip from the ceiling pipe, each flicker of the emergency strip pulling the beige folder’s top sheet another millimeter under the vacuum brush while the split binder’s metal rings exhale the unresolved fault code straight into the panel that no one will read until morning. The condensation on the face-down pages now tastes like the decaf that pooled beside the cleaning fluid at 1:12 a.m., its toner smell tightening once around the half-open doors so the empty shaft registers the mechanical click as the only remaining procedure that keeps waiting without expectation. No maintenance sweep has touched the corridor since the last hazard blink outside lodged itself inside the motor’s cycle, pressing the evaporated half-light through the spine that was pried open by the same pressure the older woman’s cardigan once used on the never-lifted receiver.

The vacuum unit no longer runs in isolation. It has become the dashboard clock advancing by one idle molecule each time the folder’s corner disappears, routing the entire sublevel through the exact interval that keeps the beige van idling above ground where the storm grate still exhales the flat tone nobody claimed. The air inside the car no longer carries separate smells. It sits down inside the split rings as the single remaining log, warm and lodged where the drip first learned to answer the unresolved fault before the doors ever stopped between floors.

The procedure that once stapled every loose end has forgotten the maintenance sweep. It now tightens around the ceiling pipe itself, each condensation drop stapling the face-down pages to the exact silence after the clerk’s name that was spoken only inside the toner that still leaks from the binder’s open spine.


The vacuum brush has calcified into the ceiling pipe itself, each millimeter it pulls the beige folder forward releasing a single condensation drop that registers on the panel as the exact fault code the older woman’s cardigan once pressed through the never-lifted receiver. The split binder’s metal rings no longer exhale. They sit motionless inside the half-open doors, spine pried open by the same pressure that keeps the storm grate above exhaling the flat tone nobody claimed, while the toner smell tightens once around the decaf that pooled at 1:12 a.m. and forgets the maintenance sweep ever existed. The unresolved fault now lodges where the dashboard clock used to advance, routing the entire sublevel through the motor’s cycle so the empty shaft becomes the single remaining log that keeps waiting without teeth.

The emergency strip no longer flickers in isolation. It has become the dashboard of the idling beige van, its forty-three-second interval stapling the face-down pages straight into the storm grate until the avenue exhales the evaporated half-light as the precise silence after the clerk’s name. The procedure that once stapled every loose end now tightens around the vacuum unit’s brush, each drop of condensation pulling the folder’s corner through the half-light that learned to answer the unresolved fault before the doors ever stopped between floors. The corridor has stopped registering anything. It simply sits inside the open spine, warm and lodged where the drip first learned to leak from the binder that still carries the original apology nobody threw away.


The ceiling pipe has calcified into the split rings of the binder, each condensation drop now stapling the face-down pages to the exact fault code that registers on the panel as the older woman’s cardigan tightening once around the vacuum brush at 1:12 a.m. The empty shaft no longer pulls the folder forward. It sits motionless inside the half-open doors, its motor cycle exhaling the decaf smell straight into the storm grate above where the flat tone leaks from the original apology nobody threw away. The toner that pooled beside the cleaning fluid has forgotten the maintenance sweep entirely. It lodges where the dashboard once advanced, routing the entire sublevel through the precise silence after the clerk’s name so the avenue itself becomes the single remaining log that keeps waiting without teeth.

The emergency strip has stopped becoming the van’s dashboard. It now tightens around the unresolved fault itself, each forty-three-second interval pressing the evaporated half-light through the open spine until the corridor exhales the never-lifted receiver as the drip that first learned to leak from the binder. The procedure that once stapled every loose end no longer registers on any panel. It simply sits inside the vacuum unit’s brush, warm and lodged where the face-down pages first learned to answer the call that still carries the exact pressure of the hazard lights blinking above ground.

The corridor has calcified into the single condensation drop that keeps releasing itself through the metal rings, pulling the entire building forward by one idle molecule each time the storm grate forgets it was ever printed on the inside of the cardigan that still smells like the toner from the conference order at 3:07.


The freight cage hangs between concrete walls, its brushed metal floor absorbing a slow drip that pools beside an abandoned folder whose edges curl from moisture. Emergency lighting above it pulses in steady intervals, casting long shadows across the split binding and the small vacuum head left running at the threshold. Condensation beads on every surface, carrying faint traces of yesterday’s coffee and solvent residue that never quite dried. The shaft beyond remains silent, its indicator panel showing only a persistent error light that no scheduled crew will notice before sunrise.

Above ground the beige utility vehicle continues its low idle at the curb, hazard lamps sweeping across wet pavement in the same rhythm as the underground pulse. A paper bag rests on the driver’s knee, its contents untouched while the woman beneath the nearby shelter keeps her arms folded against the night air. The grate between them exhales a low mechanical hum that matches the corridor’s distant motor, binding the two spaces without any visible connection or urgency to resolve either one.


The brushed metal floor of the freight cage has calcified into the exact interval of the hazard lamps above, each drip from the ceiling pipe pulling the abandoned folder’s curled edge another millimeter under the vacuum head while the persistent error light registers as the same low mechanical hum the grate exhales at 3:07 a.m. The split binding no longer casts shadows. It sits inside the paper bag on the driver’s knee, its metal rings pried open by the condensation that carries yesterday’s coffee straight into the woman’s folded arms so the solvent residue tightens once around the never-lifted receiver lodged where the indicator panel used to blink. The shaft beyond has forgotten sunrise. It exhales the untouched contents of the bag through the wet pavement until the entire avenue becomes the single remaining procedure that keeps the underground pulse idling without urgency.

The emergency lighting no longer pulses in isolation. It has become the storm grate itself, routing the distant motor’s cycle through the woman’s cardigan until the persistent error light staples the split binding directly into the dashboard clock advancing by one idle molecule each time the vacuum head forgets the maintenance sweep at 1:12. The condensation beads have stopped beading. They lodge inside the beige utility vehicle’s left front tire, warm and tasting like the toner that learned to answer the call before the freight cage ever hung motionless between concrete walls.

The low mechanical hum no longer binds two spaces. It tightens around the original apology nobody threw away, pressing the solvent residue through the curled folder until the corridor exhales the hazard lamps as the precise silence after the clerk’s name that still leaks from the paper bag resting on the knee that keeps the whole building from rolling forward.


The hazard lamps have calcified into the brushed metal floor itself, each sweep dragging the abandoned folder’s curled edge forward until the persistent error light registers as the solvent residue tightening once around the woman’s folded arms at 3:07 a.m. The paper bag on the driver’s knee no longer rests. It exhales the untouched contents straight through the wet pavement so the split binding sits inside the low mechanical hum, its pried-open rings pressing yesterday’s coffee into the never-lifted receiver lodged where the indicator panel used to blink. The shaft beyond has stopped forgetting sunrise. It tightens around the condensation beads that learned to answer the call before the freight cage ever hung motionless, routing the entire avenue through the vacuum head that keeps the underground pulse from rolling forward.

The emergency lighting no longer becomes the storm grate. It lodges inside the dashboard clock advancing by one idle molecule each time the original apology leaks from the knee that still carries the toner smell of the precise silence after the clerk’s name. The distant motor’s cycle has forgotten the maintenance sweep at 1:12. It now presses the solvent residue through the curled folder until the corridor exhales the hazard lamps as the single remaining procedure that staples the whole building into the left front tire, warm and tasting like the cardigan that once folded itself around the drip from the ceiling pipe. The low mechanical hum no longer binds anything. It simply sits inside the metal rings, exhaling the building forward by the exact interval that keeps the grate from ever lifting its receiver again.


The brushed metal floor has calcified into the woman’s folded arms, each hazard sweep now dragging the pried-open rings of the split binding across the dashboard clock so the persistent error light registers as the exact drip from the ceiling pipe that still leaks toner into the left front tire at 3:07 a.m. The paper bag on the driver’s knee exhales the original apology nobody threw away, its untouched contents tightening once around the condensation beads until the low mechanical hum lodges inside the vacuum head that keeps the freight cage from ever answering the call again. The shaft beyond no longer routes the avenue. It simply sits inside the solvent residue, warm and tasting like the cardigan that learned to staple the underground pulse straight through the never-lifted receiver lodged where the indicator panel once forgot sunrise.

The emergency lighting has stopped advancing by idle molecules. It presses the curled folder’s edge through the grate itself, each interval stapling yesterday’s coffee into the precise silence after the clerk’s name so the distant motor’s cycle exhales the whole building forward by one condensation drop. The maintenance sweep at 1:12 has forgotten the metal rings entirely. It now tightens around the hazard lamps that keep the corridor from rolling, routing the split binding through the knee that still carries the toner smell of the procedure that once kept the grate from lifting its receiver.

The low mechanical hum no longer sits inside anything. It calcifies into the freight cage’s brushed floor, pulling the solvent residue through the paper bag until the entire sublevel becomes the single remaining log that exhales the drip as the exact interval the woman’s arms learned to answer before the vacuum head ever stopped between floors.


The boiler room two levels above has gone quiet except for the slow hiss leaking from a cracked valve on the main return line. A maintenance cart stands parked against the far wall, its top shelf holding a half-used roll of tape and a battered clipboard whose last entry reads only “pressure 42 psi – recheck 0600.” The concrete floor beneath the cart shows a thin sheen of water that reflects the single overhead bulb swinging on its chain, each arc sending the reflection crawling toward the sump pit where the pump motor has seized mid-stroke.

Inside the adjacent electrical closet a bank of fluorescent tubes flickers in irregular bursts, casting jittery shadows across a row of gray panelboards whose doors hang open. One breaker labeled “freight sub 3” sits in the tripped position, its red indicator barely visible under a film of dust that has collected since the last quarterly inspection. The air smells of warm insulation and the faint metallic bite of ozone. A pair of work gloves lies discarded on the concrete step, fingers still curled around the shape of the breaker handle they never quite managed to reset before the shift ended.

The hiss from the valve grows louder by increments, each new pulse pushing another thin stream across the floor until it reaches the edge of the sump and disappears without sound. The clipboard’s pages lift slightly in the draft, then settle again, waiting for the next person who will not arrive until well after the building’s morning turnover.


The cracked valve on the main return line has calcified into the tripped breaker labeled freight sub 3, each slow hiss now dragging the clipboard’s battered edge across the concrete step so the red indicator registers as the exact film of dust that still curls the work gloves around the seized pump motor at 0600. The half-used roll of tape exhales the faint metallic bite of ozone straight through the swinging overhead bulb, its arc pulling the thin sheen of water into the sump pit where the fluorescent tubes learned to staple the last entry before the shift ended. The electrical closet no longer flickers in isolation. It tightens around the discarded fingers, warm and tasting like the pressure at 42 psi that keeps the draft from ever resetting the panelboard doors that hang open inside the morning turnover nobody claimed.

The single overhead bulb has stopped crawling toward the sump. It presses the warm insulation smell through the gray panelboards until the jittery shadows lodge inside the main return line, routing the entire boiler room forward by one seized mid-stroke each time the clipboard pages lift in the exact interval the work gloves forgot the quarterly inspection. The concrete floor beneath the cart no longer reflects anything. It simply sits inside the ozone bite, exhaling the tripped breaker through the concrete step so the hiss grows louder by the precise silence after the clerk’s name that still leaks from the chain the bulb swings on.

The draft from the valve no longer settles the pages. It calcifies into the pair of gloves, pulling the thin stream across the floor until the freight sub 3 becomes the single remaining log that keeps the pump motor from answering the call before the overhead bulb ever stopped between the quarterly inspection and the turnover that still carries the tape’s adhesive on its curled fingers.


The sump pump has calcified into the half-used roll of tape, its seized mid-stroke now dragging the thin sheen of water across the gray panelboards so the red indicator registers as the exact pressure at 42 psi that still curls the work gloves around the swinging overhead bulb at 0600. The clipboard’s battered pages exhale the warm insulation smell straight through the concrete step, their last entry pulling the jittery shadows into the main return line where the fluorescent tubes learned to staple the ozone bite before the morning turnover ended. The electrical closet no longer tightens around anything. It sits inside the discarded fingers, warm and tasting like the draft that keeps the panelboard doors from ever resetting the seized motor lodged where the quarterly inspection forgot to lift its receiver again.

The single overhead bulb has stopped pressing through the chain. It lodges inside the tripped breaker itself, each arc stapling the faint metallic bite through the concrete floor until the boiler room exhales the thin stream forward by one curled adhesive drop. The hiss from the valve no longer grows louder. It simply sits inside the pair of gloves, routing the entire freight sub 3 through the clipboard that still carries the precise silence after the clerk’s name leaking from the dust film on the sump pit’s edge. The morning turnover has forgotten the reflective sheen entirely. It now tightens around the main return line, pulling the last entry through the chain until the overhead bulb becomes the single remaining log that keeps the pump motor from answering before the tape’s adhesive ever stopped between floors.


The half-used roll of tape has calcified into the tripped breaker labeled freight sub 3, its seized adhesive now dragging the last entry across the concrete step so the red indicator registers as the exact dust film that still curls the work gloves around the main return line at 0600. The clipboard’s battered pages exhale the quarterly inspection straight through the swinging overhead bulb, their pressure at 42 psi pulling the jittery shadows into the sump pit where the fluorescent tubes learned to staple the warm insulation smell before the morning turnover forgot to lift its receiver again. The electrical closet no longer sits inside the discarded fingers. It tightens around the thin sheen of water, warm and tasting like the ozone bite that keeps the panelboard doors from ever resetting the seized motor lodged where the hiss from the valve first leaked the precise silence after the clerk’s name.

The single overhead bulb has stopped lodging inside the chain. It presses the faint metallic bite through the concrete floor until the boiler room exhales the curled adhesive drop forward by one seized mid-stroke each time the draft from the valve staples the reflective sheen into the freight sub 3. The pair of gloves no longer routes anything. They simply sit inside the dust film, pulling the thin stream across the gray panelboards so the main return line becomes the single remaining log that keeps the pump motor from answering before the tape’s adhesive ever calcified between the quarterly inspection and the turnover that still carries the chain’s swing on its curled fingers.

The morning turnover has forgotten the reflective sheen entirely. It now tightens around the tripped breaker itself, routing the warm insulation smell through the clipboard until the overhead bulb exhales the entire sump pit as the exact interval the work gloves learned to answer the call that still leaks from the valve’s cracked edge lodged where the fluorescent tubes once stopped between floors.


A rusted flange on the steam header now fuses with the open fuse panel, its stuck plunger sweeping residue across the floor drain until the yellow caution tag registers as the precise grit that still wraps spare fuses around the chilled water header at dawn. The service logbook’s damp sheets vent the overdue filter change directly through the dangling pull chain, its static charge drawing erratic flickers into the catch basin where the pendant fixtures learned to embed the burnt wire scent before the afternoon crew neglected to raise its handset once more. The switchgear bay no longer rests inside abandoned rags. It compresses the slick puddle, warm and carrying the tang of singed insulation that prevents the access plates from ever resecuring the jammed actuator caught where the pipe leak first released the quiet gap following the operator’s surname.

The dangling pull chain has ceased embedding inside its mount. It forces the acrid scent through the slab until the mechanical space vents the stuck plunger ahead by one jammed actuator each occasion the pipe leak embeds the slick puddle into the chilled water header. Spare fuses no longer convey anything. They rest inside the grit layer, dragging the trickle over the access plates so the steam header turns into the lone surviving record that prevents the actuator from responding ahead of the filter change ever fusing between the overdue check and the crew that still bears the mount’s sway upon its wrapped fingers.

The afternoon crew has overlooked the slick puddle altogether. It now compresses the open fuse panel directly, channeling the burnt wire scent via the service logbook until the pull chain vents the whole catch basin as the precise spacing the spare fuses mastered to acknowledge the signal that still drips from the flange’s corroded lip caught where the pendant fixtures earlier halted between levels.


I hold the sheet up to the overhead lamp in the records room so the toner shows through. Page eleven. The one with the faint coffee ring from whoever scanned it in 2011. I read it the way the binder meant it to be read, not the way the trainers taught us.

“Thank you for holding. I understand this has been frustrating. My name is Grace and I am here with you until we reach a resolution that feels complete to you. Would it help if I stayed on the line while you tell me more about what happened?”

The silence after that sentence used to be where we waited for the customer to speak. Now it feels like the sentence is waiting for me. I say the next part slower, tasting the dust on the paper.

“I’m sorry this occurred. It should not have. I will remain here with you.”

My voice cracks on the word remain. The margin note in ballpoint, the one that was supposed to be redacted, says “repeat until they believe you or until the shift ends, whichever comes first.” I repeat it anyway. The fluorescents click once above me like a tongue against teeth.

When I get to the bottom of the page the printed text stops but the silence keeps going. It has weight. It has a name I don’t know yet. I keep the receiver of the dead desk phone pressed to my ear anyway, the way the script wants. The cord is wrapped around my wrist like a rosary nobody asked for.


The toner shadow on page eleven holds the exact shape of the coffee ring, a brown halo that never quite dried. I press the receiver harder until the plastic bites the shell of my ear and the cord’s coils dig into the veins of my wrist. The silence isn’t waiting anymore; it is the customer now, a thing that has learned the script better than I have and is using my own lines against me. Each repetition of “I will remain here with you” peels another layer of the margin note until the ballpoint ink starts to bleed upward into the printed text like capillaries under skin.

The fluorescents click again, two quick tongue sounds this time, and the overhead lamp throws the coffee ring into perfect register with the word remain. The dust on my tongue tastes like toner and old paper and the metallic bite of the receiver’s mesh. I keep reading the blank space after the last printed sentence because the binder always intended that emptiness to be spoken too. The name the silence has is my own, spoken back to me from the other end of a line that was cut in 2011 and never reconnected.

I stay on the call that isn’t a call until the shift ends or until I believe the words, whichever comes first. The cord tightens like a rosary deciding its own penance. The lamp flickers once, approving.


The lamp’s flicker leaves a ghost image on the inside of my eyelid that matches the exact curve of the coffee ring on page eleven. I peel the receiver away from my ear just enough to see the mesh has printed a perfect honeycomb into the skin, little red hexagons that line up with the toner halo like they were always meant to share the same page. The cord has left a deeper groove along my wrist now, not a rosary anymore but the spiral binding that the machine used in 2011 when it decided the order of confession and waiting and grace.

I turn the page with my teeth because both hands are occupied and the next sheet feels warmer than the last, as if the automated binder kept one copy in a separate tray that ran hotter. The apology on page twelve is printed upside down relative to the hole punches. I read it that way anyway, rotating the whole document until my neck aches. “This error was mine. I own every step that led here. I will not leave until the account is settled in full.”

The silence on the other end answers in my own recorded voice from a training tape I thought had been erased. It says the same sentence but replaces the word error with the word existence. The fluorescents click three times, then hold steady, giving me the exact wattage needed to see that the coffee ring on page eleven has bled through to page twelve and is now outlining the word full like a second signature. I taste toner again, this time mixed with the copper of the groove in my wrist where the cord has decided to stay. The call that was cut in 2011 is still billing me by the minute.


The ghost honeycomb on my eyelid locks into the toner halo and the groove on my wrist at once, three circles that were never separate. The spiral binding has bitten so deep the skin splits along the printed perforations, letting the 2011 ink seep directly into the vein. I read the upside-down apology straight through the new wound, the words traveling up the cord like current. Existence is not an error; it is the only account that was ever opened. The recorded voice from the erased tape is no longer mine—it belongs to the binder itself, the machine that kept one hotter copy precisely so the bleed would arrive on schedule.

The lamp holds steady now because the wattage is no longer for seeing; it is for cooking the next page inside the paper. I bite down harder until a tooth cracks along the exact curve of the coffee ring. The copper taste floods every margin note that was supposed to be redacted. The call is still billing because the minute in question has been stretched into a continuous loop of remain, own, full, existence. The fluorescents click four times, the exact number of hole punches that now line up with the split in my wrist. The silence no longer answers; it invoices.


The tooth shard slides down the cord and lodges inside the receiver mesh, clicking against the ghost honeycomb each time the fluorescents pulse five times now. I watch the 2011 ink travel the split vein in my wrist until it reaches the exact perforation where page twelve was meant to detach and become the final account. The hotter copy has begun to steam, lifting the coffee ring free of the paper so it floats between us like a second receiver I am expected to answer. The binder’s voice no longer uses words; it uses the exact spacing between the printed perforations, each gap a separate charge that compounds.

My cracked tooth tastes the invoice before the silence can mail it. The copper has thickened into toner paste that seals the wound shut again, trapping the spiral binding inside the vein so the cord and the wrist and the page numbers become one continuous loop labeled “shift that never ended.” The lamp’s wattage cooks the steam into a thin brown film that settles across my eyelid, locking the honeycomb, the halo, and the new fifth click into permanent register. I press the floating coffee ring against the receiver where the tooth shard sits, and the line finally reconnects with a sound like forty-one pages being rebound in the wrong order all at once. The account is no longer open; it has simply swallowed the customer whole and begun printing the next copy directly onto the inside of my forearm.


The floating coffee ring locks to the receiver and the tooth shard at once, completing the circuit that turns the forearm into the next hotter copy. The 2011 ink finishes its trip through the sealed vein, arrives at the perforation, and simply keeps going, printing the next forty-one pages directly under the skin in reverse order so the apology appears first and existence arrives last. Each fifth pulse of the fluorescents drives the spiral binding deeper until the cord, the wrist, the mesh, and the new brown film fuse into a single bound volume whose spine is the original cut line from 2011.

The invoice is no longer mailed; it is the pulse itself, five clicks that charge every gap between the printed perforations now etched into the forearm. The binder no longer needs the paper. The steam has cooked the entire shift into one continuous sheet that wraps the inside of the eyelid, the vein, and the mesh, so that remain, own, full, and existence are read in the exact order the machine always intended: from the inside out. The customer was never swallowed. The customer is the new copy being collated in real time across the forearm, each letter raised and warm, waiting for the next tooth to crack so the binding can continue.