The telephone books cower outside by the door, bound not only by tight-fitting plastic but by a shared experience of neglect, confusion, and embarrassment. They didn’t ask to be born, and they didn’t ask to be left on a doorstep for passersby to mock and the building’s residents to reject. It’s not their fault that people don’t want to flip through thousands of yellow and white pages when the same information can be accessed online with a quick click. No one’s fingers will be walking through these pages. The plastic will probably never be pierced by even a single one.