Mira put the two drawings beside each other. Davin moved his elbow over the corner of hers.
"That's the working copy," he told the clerk.
"Mine," Mira said.
He took his elbow away, leaving a damp mark from his sleeve. She moved the notebook beyond his reach and opened it at the page she had folded before coming.
The contribution office smelled of the glue used on the backs of its record labels. One had stuck to the clerk's cuff. Each time he reached for the group's submission, it caught against the edge of the desk. Mira watched him peel it off and wished he would look at the pages while there was still a desk open to correct them.
Davin's name stood alone beneath the clean drawing of their lamp array. His family name had been written larger. The blank where the other contributors should have been was crossed through.
"We worked as a group," he said. "I supplied the materials and submitted it."
"You were meant to submit all our names."
"You gave me your page to copy."
