He pulled a strip of photographic paper from the box—glossy, eight inches wide—and fed it into the machine’s gate. He took a deep breath. Then he began to type.
Arthur. I proofread my life. No errors. I’m sorry it took sixty years to set the record straight. Come to Chicago. Bring the machine. We have a darkroom here too. filmotype lucky
Clack. Whirrr. Expose.
