Hemlock laughed—a dry, sad sound. “Free, yes. Downloadable, no.” He pulled a wooden drawer from a cabinet. Inside, arranged in perfect rows, were tiny lead blocks, each topped with a single letter in a warm, uneven serif. It looked like tree bark had learned to write poetry.

“This is the only copy of Tan Tangkiwood,” Hemlock said. “You want it? You earn it.”

Hemlock sighed and led her to the back room. On the wall hung a faded photograph: a stern Chinese-American man with ink-stained fingers, standing next to the same press Hemlock still used. Underneath, in brass letters, was a name: TAN TANGKIWOOD.

Hemlock’s hands stopped moving. He set down his tweezers and walked to the window, where rain blurred the neon sign that read HEMLOCK’S TYPESETTING: WE STILL USE LEAD.