You don't answer but they tell you anyway, the way people tell you things when they've been holding them, and their voice doesn't change exactly but the shipping floor gets quieter around it, or you stop hearing the machinery, or the noise was never as loud as you thought it was, and what your coworker is saying is: there was something, once, that was made of -- not made of, that's already wrong -- there was something that was stories happening. Not a teller, not a collection. A place where every story's telling was occurring at the same time, and each telling was true, and the truths were unresolvable, but that was fine, that was the condition, the way a sour chord is not a mistake just because the notes are too close together. And someone found it.