A desk. There’s an editor on it from 1989 — blue screen, function keys, no feed — and a fellow named Bartleby who catches the lines you’d otherwise lose: texted at red lights, called in from the road, filed where the book needs them, waiting the next time you sit down.

The desk is free, and the address above gets you one today. Bartleby’s telephone comes to that list first. He’ll never write your book. If you ask, he’d prefer not to.