"It's from 1927," I say, lifting a knob on the side to make the typebars on my grandpa's old, black typewriter stand up in a fan that looks like a crown. "I wrote my first short story on it when I was ten, and he wrote his thesis on it when he was in college."
"It's beautiful," my co-worker says, nodding appreciatively.
Later that night, Katie and I unpack some old railroad lanterns she bought on eBay, and we scan up and down their lovely, rusted flanks for serial numbers to see when and where in the last century they were made.
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