The retreat center advertised a magical, bucolic setting guaranteed to unplug the writer from an over-connected world. For hours, Catherine stared at the typewriter, her fingers mindlessly caressing the black keys. She sighed, rising, she stepped outside to tread the marshy moor.

The door clicked shut, and the stapler clacked his jaws.

“Is it good?”

Paper wiggled from under paperweights, wedged themselves into the roller, while the typewriter’s keys pounded words ...