II

After DOGE “modernized” government systems to increase “efficiency,” they still left some systems stuck in the past. Especially the ones that exist for Americans to receive money.

I could give them money in an instant from any of my devices, any time. Tap tap, money gone. Like ordering a burrito.

But the second I discovered they owed me some money, I had to use a fax machine.

So I called EDD to appeal an overpayment charge and get my unemployment released. The automated voice did that thing where it sounds cheerful, like it isn’t currently ruining your week.

“Thank you for calling the Employment Development Department. Your call may be monitored or recorded. Please listen carefully, as our menu options have changed.”

Of course they have.

Twenty minutes later I got a human being. I could hear the keyboard before I could hear hope.

“EDD, how can I help you?”

“Hi. I’m calling because I got hit with an overpayment notice, and I need to appeal it.”

“Okay. Do you have your claimant ID?”

“Yeah.”

More typing. A pause long enough to age me.

“Okay, I see it. You’ll need to submit an appeal.”

“Great. How do I submit it?”

“You’ll need to fax the appeal form.”

I stopped breathing, not dramatically, just like my body didn’t understand what century we were in.

“I’m sorry, you said fax.”

“Yes.”

“In 2026.”

“Yes.”

“Is there an online portal, email, upload, anything?”

“No, you have to fax it.”

There’s a very specific kind of insanity that only government systems can create, where they are both omniscient and helpless at the same time. They know everything about you. They can take your money instantly. But they can’t receive a PDF.

“Okay,” I said, because what else do you say when reality is pranking you. “Where do I fax it?”

She read it like it was the most normal sentence on Earth.

“To a 916 area code.”

Sacramento. The capital of “we have computers, we just don’t like them.”

The problem was, I didn’t have a fax machine. I didn’t even have the five dollars it would take to do it at the FedEx Office. I had the appeal paperwork and I had that broke-person math where you start doing calculations like, “If I skip food, can I afford the privilege of asking for my own money back?”

That’s when I remembered an old one-off print shop in Berkeley. One of those places no one is ever in. The kind of shop that looks like it exists solely to print zines, laminate flyers, and keep the spirit of 1998 alive.

I thought maybe a sweet old Berkeley hippie owned it. Someone who also hates the government. Someone who would sympathize with me enough to send one stupid fax.

It was indeed owned by an old Berkeley hippie, I found out later.

But when I got there on Friday, January 2, 2026, it was closed. The shop was empty. The door appeared to be locked.

I’m not sure if it was luck, divine intervention, or someone had already used time travel to change the timeline before I arrived, but just as I pulled on the door out of pure disappointment and desperation, it swung open a crack.

Not open. Not welcoming. Just open enough to tempt me.

Until the chain wrapped around the handles stopped it.

The lock was only on the right door handle.

It was just enough for me to squeeze under the chain and slip inside.

And look. Forget time travel. Breaking into a print shop to use a fax machine is already a sci-fi sentence. The hardest part wasn’t the trespassing, it was figuring out how to use a damn fax machine.

I found it in the back. Dusty. Beige. Covered in the kind of fingerprints that feel historic. I hit the power button.

The machine woke up with an angry little whine, like it had been waiting years to judge someone.

I started poking at buttons, trying to decode it, and immediately it printed a page.

Not a test page.

A message.

`FAX RECEIVED`

`DATE: 01/02/-- TIME: 00:01`

`FROM:---`

`TO: ---`

`PAGES: 1`

`HELLO. CAN YOU FAX TODAY? SAN FRANCISCO CHRONICLE.`

Then a phone number, formatted weirdly, and a handful of languages mixed in, French, Spanish, Chinese, like the machine couldn’t decide what planet it was on.

I set it aside.

I didn’t have paper. I didn’t have time. I assumed it was old junk, a misprint, a prank. I was here to send my EDD appeal, not audition for haunted office equipment.

As I’m trying to figure it out, the machine prints another page.

`FAX RECEIVED`

`DATE: 01/02/-- TIME: 01:01`

`FROM:---`

`TO: ---`

`PAGES: 1`

`THIS IS VERY IMPORTANT. PAPER IS LOCATED IN THE LOWER DRAWER.`

I check.

There’s paper.

Of course there is.

I load it, try to send my fax, and it will not let me. Not like an error code. Like refusal. Like the machine is a bouncer and my appeal form isn’t on the list.

Then it prints another page.

`DATE: 01/02/-- TIME: 01:44`

`FROM:---`

`TO: ---`

`PAGES: 1`

`IN ORDER TO SEND YOUR FAX, YOU MUST FAX THE PAPER FIRST.`

And it starts walking me through instructions. Step by step. Button by button. Like a customer service agent that only speaks in paper.

Then it tries to convince me I’d be rewarded if I cooperated and provided my information.

Which I do not, because I’m not a complete idiot. Also I’m breaking and entering. Also this is a fax machine offering rewards, which is not a thing that should happen in any healthy universe.

I finally got the fax machine to cooperate, which is a phrase no human being should have to say in 2026\.

The machine made me do it in steps. It wasn’t “fax your form.” It was “fax the paper first,” like it had standards.

The paper goes through. It screams. The machine makes that sound like a robot gargling regret.

Then, finally, it lets me send my EDD appeal.

I’m staring at the confirmation page like it’s a diploma.

Okay. Cool. Done. Get out. Exit the crime scene. Go be a normal citizen who definitely did not break into a print shop to use a fax machine like some kind of broke time traveler.

I’m stepping away from the counter, heart still racing, already rehearsing how I’ll pretend this never happened, when I hear it.

A car door slammed outside.

Not the way a college kid slams an Uber door on a Friday night. The way a judge slams a gavel on a guilty verdict.

Headlights swept across the front window. White light, then blue, then red. Then that slow, lazy swing like a lighthouse for people who make terrible choices.

Which, for the record, is exactly what I was doing. Making a terrible choice. Inside a closed print shop. Wearing a hoodie and a beanie. In Berkeley. With a government form in my hand that basically screamed: this man is broke and desperate.

I ducked lower behind the counter, trying to compress my entire existence into a space the size of a shoebox.

Then the fax machine made a noise.

Not a little noise. Not a polite office noise. A dramatic noise. An “I have an announcement” noise. It whirred and clicked and started feeding paper like it had been waiting its whole life for an audience.

One of the cops outside leaned toward the glass.

“Berkeley PD!” a voice called. “Hello? Anyone inside?”

I froze so hard I became furniture.

The fax machine did not freeze.

It spit out a sheet like it was proud of itself, and the page slid onto the floor into the open, perfect strip of light from the front window.

The cop’s flashlight landed on it.

I watched, helpless, as the paper settled flat like it was volunteering as evidence.

From my hiding spot, I could see the top line.

`To: Jerry Kessler`

`From: Pierre`

And just like that, my brain did the thing it does when it’s cornered. It found a lie. It built a suit around the lie. It put a tie on it. It handed the lie a business card.

The chain at the door rattled.

“Hello!” the cop said again, louder. “Berkeley PD. We got a call about a possible break-in.”

My mind flipped through options.

Option one: stay hidden until they bring bolt cutters and discover me folded like a sad origami man behind the counter.

Option two: stand up and try to talk my way out of the dumbest situation I’ve ever been in.

Before I could even process what I was doing, I was walking to the door with intention. Like I belonged in this totally not bizarre situation.

Papers in one hand, like someone who worked in a print shop. The other hand up, palm forward, not like the surrender of an unarmed suspect, more like a reluctant wave.

“Oh. Hey,” I said. “Yeah. Hi. Everything’s fine.”

The cop’s flashlight hit my face. His partner angled to get a better look through the crack.

“Everything’s fine,” I repeated, that time to convince myself.

“Why are you inside a closed business?” the first cop asked.

I pointed down at the chain on the door like it was the door’s fault. “I’m… locked in.”

They exchanged the kind of look cops exchange when they’ve heard a thousand versions of the same sentence and none of them end well.

“Locked in,” the second cop repeated, slow.

“Yeah,” I said. “It’s a long story.”

“Let’s start with your name.”

I gave them my real name like an alias.

They asked for ID. I handed it over.

“Who owns this place?” the first cop asked.

The name on the fax flashed in my head as clear as day.

“Jerry,” I said, like I knew Jerry. Like Jerry and I had brunch tomorrow. Good ol’ Jerry.

Jerry could have been anyone. A customer who missed a fax. The guy who sweeps the floors. Whatever. Anything was better than “I don’t know.”

“Jerry Kessler,” I added. “He left early. Locked up. Didn’t realize I was still in here.”

“And you are?” the cop asked.

I swallowed. “His assistant.”

That word sounded insane the second it left my mouth. Assistant. In a print shop. At night. On a Friday. With no key. With a chain on the door. With cops outside. With my life choices inside me like an unpaid parking ticket.

The cop stared at me. “Call him.”

“Yeah,” I said instantly. “Of course. I was about to.”

I patted my pockets like I was searching for my phone.

No. I was searching for a miracle. Or a wormhole. Or, at best, time to think.

I searched my phone for a number I knew would go straight to voicemail.

My thumb scrolled past a name that still made my stomach drop every time.

McKensi Mallory.

Even though the sound of that name still tortured me, the beauty of its structure still left me in awe.

The two capital letters dwarfing the c like a little brother tagging along with older siblings. The double M, the alliteration. The way I used to say her name like it was my favorite McDonald’s meal.

My ex-girlfriend.

I hit call.

Even though I needed her not to answer in this moment, I still hoped she would.

McKensi and fries, please.

Voicemail.

I was back, not alone, and not in good company.

The fax machine gave a small click, like it was clearing its throat again. I ignored it with my whole soul.

Then I saw it.

A landline phone. Beige. Heavy. Ancient. Next to it, a phone book.

“You know what,” I said, turning back to the cops. “Jerry’s older. He doesn’t really do cell phones. I should call him from the shop landline. He probably recognizes the number.”

The first cop narrowed his eyes. “Go ahead.”

I walked toward the time capsule.

The phone book was thick and sun-faded in a room that had seen very little sunlight. 1998 on the spine like a threat.

I pointed at it like I’d been planning this all along.

I picked up the receiver. My hands were steady, which was weird, because my insides were doing backflips.

I flipped pages like I was praying in paper form.

Kessler, Jerry.

There it was.

I dialed.

It rang.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Then a woman answered.

“Hello?”

“Hi,” I said. “Uh. Is Jerry there?”

“Hang on. Jerry, telephone!”

From somewhere upstairs, a voice barked back.

“WHO IS IT?”

The woman lowered her voice, like this was now a normal little household moment. “Who’s calling?”

My eyes dropped to the fax on the floor.

“Um. P-Pierre.”

“PIERRE!” she called, bright. Like she was announcing a celebrity.

Upstairs, footsteps. Not slow old-man footsteps either. Fast. Alarmed.

The woman came back on the line, suddenly sweet in a way that felt dangerous.

“A very French name for such an American voice,” she said. “Is your family French?”

“Uh,” I said. “No. My mother is Creole.”

“Oh, I love New Orleans,” she said, like we were about to become friends. “We went in ’04, Jerry got sunburned so bad he loo…”

The phone made a sharp, sudden sound.

“HELLO,” Jerry barked into the line.

I froze. No thoughts. No words. My brain went blank like it had been unplugged.

“I was talking, Jerry,” the wife said behind him, still trying to keep the vibe friendly.

Jerry barked again.

“HELLO.”

Not “hello” like a greeting.

“HELLO” like a warning.

My throat went dry.

“Okay,” I said. “This is going to sound crazy.”

“Who is this?” Jerry snapped.

“I… uh…”

“YOU’RE NOT PIERRE,” he said, louder. “YOU SOUND LIKE A GOD DAMN MILLENNIAL.”

“He’s Creole, Jerry, for Christ’s sake,” the wife said, embarrassed on my behalf.

“Look,” I said, words finally loading back into my mouth, “I’m not Pierre.”

Silence.

I could hear the cops outside shifting their weight, like they were listening to every syllable and rating my survival chances.

“I snuck into your shop,” I said, fast now. “I needed to use the fax machine. I’m dealing with unemployment stuff and they told me I have to fax an appeal to a 916 number, and I don’t have a fax machine, and I don’t even have five bucks to do it at FedEx. I saw your place and the door was… it was kind of…”

Jerry cut in. “Did you touch anything?”

“You mean besides the phone?”

“DID YOU USE THE FAX MACHINE?”

“Yes,” I said. “Yes, I did. And I’m sorry. Also, your door… you should really lock up better, becau–”

“What did you send?” Jerry asked.

“I sent my form,” I said.

His voice lowered and focused.

“How do you know Pierre?”

“I don’t,” I said. “I don’t know him. I just… I figured you did, because he kept faxing you, and you’d be more likely to come to the phone for someone you knew than some random stranger in your shop.”

“No, that’s… it’s…” Jerry sounded like he was trying to say something and couldn’t get it out. “That’s impossible.”

I mean I had honestly never personally used a fax machine but I assumed they worked just like all modern technology.

I press a button

Nerd does magic

I get reward.

“Something isn’t adding up,” he said. “What else did you touch?”

“I told you, man,” I said. “The fax machine, the phone book to find you, this phone. And… oh yeah. Today’s, uh… SF Chronicle. That’s all.”

There was a beat.

Then, like he’d just remembered he left the stove on in a different universe, Jerry went sharp.

“Shit. The Chronicle.”

“Yeah,” I said. “The machine wouldn’t work until I faxed it out.”

“DON’T MOVE,” Jerry barked.

Then the line went dead.

I stared at the receiver like it had just tried to kill me.

I turned to the cops, doing my best impression of a person who was definitely not committing a crime.

“Good news,” I said. “Jerry’s coming. With a key.”