"Start the press, Jonas," she said.

They worked through the night. Jonas cranked the flywheel manually. Elise fed each sheet, one by one. At dawn, the storm passed. The thousand copies sat in neat, damp-smelling piles.

"Please," the teacher wrote. "Do you have any more?"

Halfway through the run, the power died.

The shop went black. The only sound was the wind rattling the corrugated roof. Jonas cursed. Elise felt for the wall, her fingers cold.

She drove through the white dusk, her car a tiny beetle on a vast, frozen canvas. When she arrived at the print shop, the lights were flickering. Jonas stood by the old Heidelberg cylinder press, its brass gears gleaming.