"Are you kidding me?" he asked the empty room.

He scrolled past the sponsored ads for shredder oil (lubricant sheets, $12.99 for a pack of 12) and found the forums. The advice was grim. *“You have to take the screws out of the back.” *“Don’t force it. The gears are plastic. They strip.” *“Mine jammed on a staple. A single staple. Now it’s a doorstop.”

Elias didn't buy it for junk mail. He didn't buy it for old credit card statements. Elias bought it because he had decided, on Monday at 3:00 AM, that the last decade of his life needed to disappear.

He set the machine up in the center of his living room floor. It was an ugly, black, angular thing—a monolith of industrial paranoia. He plugged it in. The standby light glowed a soothing, omniscient green.