Alfonzo explained that if the document was accepted he would be asked to make more clean copies that would then be bound and submitted to the library. This copy was just a stepping-stone.

“Is he easygoing? You like him?”

“Yes. I mean—why?”

Mitchell hummed.

“What I’m thinking is that I give you this stack of scrap paper I’ve been saving for another purpose. It has some information on one side that’s not important. If you can use that, I have enough. You can tell Lilypad the situation. Frame it as an environmental act. Then later you can give it back to me. When you don’t need it anymore.”

Alfonzo reflected. He would feel strange explaining this to Dr. Vinograd, but perhaps it would also be good camouflage. More words on the flip side of his words would make the whole document even more daunting. He wanted desperately to be done. After it was accepted he could print the dissertation on fresh paper. He imagined Dr. Vinograd annoyed but ultimately accommodating.

“But why would you need it back?” Alfonzo asked.

“That’s between me and my cod.”

“You doing something fishy?”

Alfonzo calmed. They joked that he could spin it as conceptual.

“Tell the good doctor you’re using recycled paper on purpose, as a comment on bureaucratic waste and the trampling of institutional memory under the hooves of a callow and destructive administration.”

“He’ll love that. I’ll tell him it’s like a smudgy, papery form of the psychoanalytic writing tablet. A palimpsest.”

“I don’t know, but sure.”

“You’re saving my life,” Alfonzo hummed as Mitchell pushed a box of papers to him.

“I have a favor to ask in return.”

Alfonzo worried this would get complicated all over again.

“I want you to change the title of your dissertation. You never took my old suggestions seriously. Call it ‘Made in Llamerica.’ It’s gold. Or maybe, ‘Coming to Llamerica.’” Mitchell chuckled. “Or ‘The Bright Llama.’ Get it?”

“Subtle. But it’s schoolwork, not an album. I have to be serious.”

“My friend Alfonzo is saying no jokes? What’s the world coming to?”

“No jokes, for once.”

By late afternoon, the ship was righted. Alfonzo had appeased his printer with Mitchell’s imperfect sheets. The Aztek Howtek finished. Alfonzo autopiloted through the rest of the day’s filing. At 4:03 he slipped out of the Hall carrying the stack of papers and caught the train to Hunter, arriving at the department secretary’s desk at 4:49 p.m. The secretary bird clicked her tongue but accepted his submission.

“Congratulations, kid.”

“Woot?” He couldn’t believe he’d made it. His legs were matted with sweat.

“Get yourself a drink.” She closed and locked the door behind him as he exited.

Alfonzo found himself dazed on Park Avenue. He hopped on a train to meet Mitchell at Bamboo Palace.