(give me that it’s my dust-catcher)
The object was covered with a gray plastic hood. I reached out to touch it, and my hand faltered an inch or two short as a memory of an old dream
(give me that it’s my dust-catcher)
slipped across my mind much as that queer draft had slipped across my face. Then it was gone, and I pulled the plastic cover off. Underneath it was my old green IBM Selectric, which I hadn’t seen or thought of in years. I leaned closer, knowing that the typewriter ball would be Courier—my old favorite—even before I saw it.
