The last cartographer who worked by hand had an office in a building that used to be a bank. He made maps of places that no longer existed as they had been: decommissioned military bases, abandoned amusement parks, shopping malls in the process of becoming something else. His clients were mostly developers and demolition companies who needed accurate records of what they were erasing. He had been doing this work for nineteen years and had developed a habit of naming unnamed rooms and corridors on his surveys. Not for the client, who didn't want the names. For himself, in a separate notebook he kept locked in the bottom drawer. The loading bay he called the Hold. The skylight in the food court atrium he called the Eye. He told no one about the notebook. On the last day of the Northfield Mall survey, he stood in the empty food court and made one final notation in the notebook, not a name this time but a sentence: the place held its shape longer than the people did. He locked the drawer, filed the survey, and drove home on roads he had never bothered to name.