I am a sheet of paper.
A standard 80g A4 copy paper, produced at a paper mill in Pennsylvania.
I had pristine white skin and sharp edges.
The first half of my life was unremarkable. Along with thousands of my brothers and sisters, I lay pressed inside a blue wrapper, sitting on a dark warehouse shelf.
Until yesterday, when an order from the Pittsburgh City Government's procurement office changed my fate.
A truck took us to Grant Street.
We were carried into that magnificent stone building and through its marble corridors.
Eventually, I was delivered to an office.
It was busy here.
A pair of hands tore open the wrapping paper.
Light pierced through, and I saw daylight again.
The hands were slender, but their movements were nimble and strong.
Her fingers had thin calluses from long hours of typing.
I overheard others call her Sarah Jenkins.
She grabbed me and my brothers, loading us neatly into the feed tray of a massive high-speed laser printer.
