She can’t do it; she understands that clear as day. She only just met the man—what, an hour ago?—and she’s not sure he even knows her name.
She was dead, yes, but they didn’t talk about it.
Everything is wrong, thought William. This is how people die.
Lines shift. Lines change. Boundaries are redrawn. Whole new worlds, created out of bits of the past, from what is passed forward, accepted again, taken and renewed. This, too, is an act of faith, the going forward, the continuing on.
The art of telling a story is often found in making connections between disparate things.
In three great piles on the barn’s floor were pyramids of skulls with the antlers still attached.
Cranberries that weren’t lively enough, that didn’t bounce, got thrown away. You saved that information for future use.
I am one of those people who thinks about finding dead bodies.
He imagined Charlotte, holding her phone, looking at the same flickering three dots. Like the oyster crackers in the restaurant, stepping stones to somewhere.
The city came in their big white trucks. They planted two orange cones around the hole, one for coming and one for going. Then, they left.