because the flap always overshoots the fold by a hair no matter how slow you press the bone folder down the length of the crease and because you were told, in Ocalas, by a man who sold laminated menaces at a crease-of-the-highway table of dubious collectibles, that a true fold surrenders nothing, you kept the sliver anyway, the thin green ghost of over-travel that the contour refused to give back, folding it into the paper like a receipt you were afraid to read, and on the 81st crease the sheet began to gnash — three small wet menaces per valley fold, chewing, the way the ✕ in the diagram had warned you it would once you stopped believing the ✕, which you did, out loud, on a Tuesday, to a room of imaginary Abyssinias that stretched away in their pressed uniforms of light, each one a fold of the last, each one overshooting its neighbor by exactly one hair so that the whole battalion of Abyssinias leaned very slightly and forever toward the coin you had already flipped, which came up tails, always tails, tails being the side the paper folds toward when nobody is measuring, and so you did not correct the lean, you did not flatten the sliver, you did not un-gnash the menaces or return the over-travel to the contour, you simply signed the crease pattern where the man in Ocalas had told you to sign, folded delivery two of two along the line you no longer trusted, pressed once with your whole cold weight, and marked it, in the smallest possible hand, received