I laid the copy on the coffee table and turned it so it faced her.

She fished her glasses off their beaded chain and read the first page, then the second, then the third.

The kettle clicked off behind us, and neither of us moved.

“That’s my name,” she said.

“That’s my name, and that isn’t my handwriting.”

“Look at the date on it.”

She held the page nearer the lamp.

“The copier ate it.