“You’re leaving with the paper clips.”

“They’re good paper clips.”

We stood by the supply room while I collected my coat.

The corridor smelled of floor cleaner and pencil shavings.

My cart was parked near the closet, empty except for a folded rag.

I touched the handle once.

I could remember hundreds of ordinary mornings pushing it past classroom doors, hearing children read aloud or argue over whose turn came next.

The work had been tiring.