Somewhere around page 140 of the report she is photocopying, Sally hears a sound coming from the left side of the machine. The copies are still rolling out, settling in a pile on the tray.

Knock, knock. Knock, knock.

“Who’s there?” she asks.

Knock, knock.

She hits “cancel.” The copier stops humming.

Knock, knock.

Sally pulls the trays out one by one. Plenty of paper, nobody home. She opens the front cover and depresses the pale green levers, sliding out the corresponding parts, each one hot to the touch. She turns the knobs that roll the rollers. She closes the cover and checks again.

Knock, knock.

Is it coming from the right side?

Sally flattens her hand against the glass and presses “copy.” The strip of light burns with purpose. She can almost see through her fingers. The copier hums, then stops. “Paper jam,” announces the LCD panel. “Do something,” blinks the error bulb.

“It’s late,” Sally says to the empty office. “I’m going home.”

The bus takes forever. When she finally reaches her apartment, Sally looks at the large package outside her neighbour’s door. It’s been there for three days.

Knock, knock.

Like some kind of bad joke.

The parcel is sealed with tape and bulges slightly. She could pop into her kitchen and get a knife. It wouldn’t take long.

Sally puts her ear against the cardboard.

“This side up,” says the box. The arrow is pointing down.

She lifts with her knees, not her back, and turns the box the right way up. It’s heavy.

Maybe it is a gym set, a sex toy, a body, a bookshelf.

Sally goes home and locks the door.

Inside, Sally kicks off her shoes, drops the mail on the table and hangs up her jacket.

She falls on the couch, turns on the TV, rubs her feet, then stands up again.

The dishwasher is broken and all her glasses are in the sink. She turns on the faucet and starts to rinse one, and that’s when she hears it—from inside the fridge.

Knock, knock.

Sally spins around and yanks the handle; the beer bottles on the bottom shelf clink. Top shelf, a segment of brie. Lettuce in the crisper.

The fridge door holds some milk, three eggs and a bottle of ketchup, inverted. “Squeeze me,” says the label.

Inside the freezer, three tubs of ice cream in different flavours, each excavated to a different depth. She opens them all, finds the insides furry with frost.

At the office the next morning, the copier light is no longer blinking. Whatever was stuck has become unstuck.

On the table next to the machine, Sally sees a sheet of paper, crushed and stretched out again like the folds of an accordion. On it, the image of a pale hand against dark glass.

“Hi.” It seems to be waving. “Hi.”

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