Page after page came out.

The machine ran for two whole minutes while Fiona stood beside the tray, watching the pile get taller.

When the printer at last went quiet, Fiona gathered up the paper, squared the edges on the countertop, and tapped the stack flat.

“That’s thirty-six pages in all,” she whispered, sliding the thick bundle across the granite counter toward me.

I picked up the stack.

The paper was still warm against my fingers from the ink rollers.