“Well, the printer ran out of paper and it’s beeping and beeping and the sound of the machine makes me wild. So, I just need a little more paper to finish but you know I can’t go to the Department of Supplies because I’m not supposed to be using work resources to print my dissertation, obviously. You know Marge in Supplies is a gossip, so she’ll squawk to Old Spots. Then they’ll examine my department’s paper usage, and alarm bells will ring. Someone will come knocking: ‘Just to check a few discrepancies,’ Old Spots will promise. But he’ll be there to stick his snout into the whole department and my existence in it. They’ll use it as an excuse to get me gone. You know I can’t lie for dung. I stutter all over myself and spill the truth. So then”—Mitchell listened to Alfonzo indulge in the worst-case-scenario game—“I’ll be fired for abuse of city resources. I won’t be able to make rent, and Mr. Buzz will evict me. I’ll become a homeless doctor of urban studies. And no one will hire a paper thief to teach impressionable undergrads.”

Mitchell scrunched his brows. At some point, you just have to jump in to interrupt your friend when he’s caught in an angst groove. “Stop. You’re making my headache worse. What can I do to help?”

“Blank sheets. For the printer. I swear I’ll replace them. No one will ever know. This whole thing was a mistake. The machine is beeping, and my dissertation’s due this afternoon. I need to get this done before it all migrates even further south.”

Mitchell riffled through his drawers. “I’ve got it. How much you need? I’ve got about a hundred sheets—that good?”

Alfonzo lay his head on the cool desk. He groaned. “This is useless. I need about a thousand, or eleven hundred. Or, I mean, to be precise, I need twelve. Twelve hundred sheets.” It felt as though he were admitting to a wood pulp addiction, or gambling debt.

“Buddy! Why the hell are you printing it here?”

Alfonzo was hopeless. “I know. You know I know it’s a mess.”

“I don’t have that much. You just said it. They’re sticklers in Supplies.”

Alfonzo butted his forehead into the desk.

“I’m sorry to put you in this position. I’ll wait until the next deadline. It’s not my season. I’ll go unplug the machine.” Alfonzo held his breath. They sat for a while. Mitchell’s red plastic fan whirred on the desk.

“Okay, let’s not get overdramatic.” Mitchell tapped his toes. “I have a few questions. The deadline is today?”

Alfonzo snorted yes.

“You’re going to give this to your thesis adviser?”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Writing Pad?”

“Dr. Vinograd.”

“Same same. What would happen to this copy? If your adviser accepted it?”