The New Yorker: The Writer's Voice - New Fiction from The New Yorker Folgen

Gertrude holds her belly in skeletal arms. She sinks to her knees before Christina, pulls at Christina’s limp hands. “Please let me keep it,”she begs.“Please, Christina. I know you can intercede with God. Please do this for me.”  Learn about your ad choices: dovetail.prx.org/ad-choices

What if she’s forgotten what he looks like? What if she’s gone crazy? What if he’s here, lying in one of those cribs, and she sees him every single day without realizing he’s her son? What if it’s been too long? What if memory fails? What if everything fails, and getting through life is simply learning to cope with the failure? No, she scolds herself. Don’t think like that. Don’t let yourself give way. Learn about your ad choices: dovetail.prx.org/ad-choices

Arthur Less recalls intercontinental-travel advice that his old flame Freddy once gave him: "They serve you dinner, you take your sleeping pill, they serve you breakfast, you're there." Learn about your ad choices: dovetail.prx.org/ad-choices