I envied them their dysfunctional and usually empty houses, their near-total lack of supervision.

Now her hands knifed into the water, her body threading after, and there was no splash, she could feel the downward gulp of the water.

Although Kit and Rafe had met in the peace movement, marching, organizing, making no nukes signs, now they wanted to kill each other.

He seemed to shrink into his mackintosh like a snail surprised while eating lettuce.

Since daybreak, an unremitting drizzle had been streaking my windows.

Clockwise around the antique conference room table sat the court reporter writing everything down, Bobby LaPray, the opposing attorney, and me.

You could have taken everything I knew about long-term relationships back then and fitted it into an acorn cap.

On both visits, the men ate their fill, congratulated Mami on her cooking, Papi on his sons, and then stayed about an hour for propriety’s sake.

The living know that, at daybreak, the soul will leave them and make its way to the places of the past—the schools and dormitories of its youth, army barracks and tenements, houses razed to the ground and rebuilt, places that recall love and guilt, difficulties and unbridled happiness, optimism and ecstasy, memories of grace meaningless to anyone else—and sometimes this journey will carry it so far for so long that it will forget to come back.