You ask your coworker if she's seen the Peterson file. She stares at you for seven full seconds—eyes open, breathing, definitely alive—then says, "Sorry, what?" Apparently the question had to travel through some kind of celestial interference zone before reaching her brain. You repeat it identically. Same stare. You're starting to suspect she's waiting for you to say it in a different language, or perhaps sing it, or maybe she's testing whether you'll eventually give up and just file the Peterson thing yourself, which, okay, you will.