On the last day of the trial, I suddenly remember a dream in which a voice told me the meaning of life.
She wanted to penetrate the shells in the way doctors would when performing a procedure on her.
I’d pull back the curtains and stare at the headstones in jagged rows beside a vacant hot dog factory.
I couldn't say it—the word on the screen. The only word I could repeat was it, it, it.
Those mornings shivering at the mean edge of the public pool were worth it for the moment when you’d slide into the deep end.
