The big printer in my Dad’s office hums without stopping. It spits out page after page, dropping fresh white sheets into a pile that’s quickly spilling onto the floor. Next to the machine, three empty cardboard boxes sit open, while two fresh reams of paper wait on the rug.
"How much more is there?" I ask, stretching my arms over my head and letting out a long sigh. “Surely we’re getting there."
Locke sits across from me behind my Dad’s big oak desk. He looks massive in the wooden chair, his broad shoulders practically blocking the light from the window. He has his sleeves pushed up to his elbows, showing off the thick, tattooed muscle of his forearms. He looks up from the computer monitor.
"About three thousand pages left to print, baby," Locke says and grins at my sputter of disbelief
