“I need my shirt.” It had flown somewhere, but in the piles of metal and debris it was totally camouflaged. Tyler found it snagged on the edge of the table saw, a ragged hole cut into the shoulder. I pulled it on, inside out like he always did, and he grabbed my hand.

“Come on,” he said. “It’ll be fun.”

*  *  *

Marlin stood over an ancient monotype machine, greasy rods and screws in hand. The heaviest parts lay on the floor, alongside wooden trays of type and neat piles of grommets and bolts.

“I think I’m breaking it,” she said, frowning.

“We’ll fix it,” Tyler assured her. “We always fix it. We always fix everything.”

“I think…that one,” I said, pulling a short rod from her hand, “goes here.” I slid it into a narrow hole and screwed it into place.

We spent the next hour passing pieces back and forth, trying to reassemble the mechanisms that would hold its heavy weight, swearing and laughing at our constant failures until everything was where it was supposed to be. When we were finished, Marlin arranged a series of letters into a block, poured liquid gold into a sponge, and smeared the surface. Then she inserted a heavy black card stock and pulled the lever.

The machine pumped and pressed, forcing the letters into the paper. In carefully spaced sections, it printed TYLER SAVAGE, MARLIN MAYFIELD, JES WINSOME, JACK WELLS, CAREY LOGAN, TOM HEALY, ANELE MUIR, KERRY BEE, JEANNE PETIT, LENA ADDARIO, RACHAEL KRIEGER, MAX DE LACY, and DAVID BIRD.

She took the paper and sliced it on a cutter, the long knife raising and lowering, raising and lowering, until there were thirteen cards with a name on one side, the other blank. She folded them into place cards.

“There,” she said, stacking them into a V-shaped mountain. “For tomorrow.”

When she folded the one with Carey’s name, Tyler plucked it from her hands.

“You printed the wrong name.” His voice was low—affectless.

Marlin turned a peculiar shade of gray.

The paper turned over in his hands. It was so quiet that you could hear the rasp of his fingers across the fibers of it as he smeared the ink with his thumb. Then he set the paper carefully on the table and looked at Marlin like she had deliberately broken something precious: hurt, anger, betrayal.

“Oh—” she replied unsteadily, soggy with guilt. “I—old habits.” She took the place card from the table and threw it in the trash. “I’m sorry. I’ll make a fresh one.” She turned to the machine and I could see that she was about to cry.

Tyler turned on his heels and walked to the door.

“I’m beat,” he said, in that same low voice. “See you tomorrow.”

And with that, he left Marlin and me alone with each other in the studio.

*  *  *