I had printed my twenty-four pages on the department library printer, the toner leaving a faint gray smudge on the left margin of every page. I remembered the dry texture of the heavy manila envelope as I licked the adhesive strip.
But when I reached the green recycling bin outside Ballantine Hall, my hands began to sweat.
I had stood there for twenty minutes, listening to the chimes of the student union clock, convinced my stories were nothing more than high-school-level melodrama.
The heavy metal lid of the bin had swung open with a dull clang when I pushed it. I watched the manila envelope slide down into the dark gap, landing on top of discarded soda cans and empty blue exam booklets.
I had walked back to my room with my hands in my pockets, relieved that nobody would ever have to read my failures.
Yet three weeks later, the department secretary had called me into the office to present me with the award certificate.
I looked at my hands on the steering wheel, my wedding ring catching the dim autumn light. If I never went into that mailroom, someone else had to have printed a clean copy of my pages and signed my name.
