Along the bottom margin, printed in small gray type, were the characters BL4F-COPIER2.

The fourth floor.

The floor with his office and the machine behind his assistant’s desk.

The signature was mine, and I had never signed it.

He had stamped it out of a drawer and fed it through his own machine.

The stamp had been made years ago, when I was twenty-one and signed whatever my father put in front of me, and the company had paid the invoice.

I laid the page flat and squared its corner with the tile.