Lawrence's office was in an old building whose windows overlooked a perpetually drafty courtyard. His typewriter stood at the edge of a massive desk littered with maps and telegrams, smelling of printer's ink and the damp wool of overcoats.

Lawrence sat opposite him, almost in the shadows. His right hand rested on the arm of his chair, bandaged so tightly that his fingers looked like marble. The doctors had promised it would be temporary, but war didn't wait. He watched as you inserted a blank sheet of paper, threaded it evenly, without slanting, and your fingers settled habitually on the keys.

"Begin," he said. "To the Editor..."

You pressed the key. The first letter entered the paper with a dull, weighty thud.

Lawrence dictated differently from the others. He didn't rattle off words, didn't break up sentences, but every word he uttered was heavy, like loading a magazine. He dictated as if he were cutting into something, and your fingers barely managed to bounce off the keys to avoid burning themselves.

"...And so, on the evening of the second day..." He paused for a second, and in the silence you heard an ambulance drive past the window, its wheels clattering like your typewriter. "Can you keep up with me?"

His voice was even, but you sensed he wasn't asking about speed. He was asking if you understood. Do you feel the weight of every word you were transferring from his head to this page, so that tomorrow they would be talked about in the trenches, at headquarters, in smoke-filled reading rooms.