My father took us. Sunday morning bike rides in Central Park, when the roads were closed to traffic
At night in bed, data pours in and out through the machine in her chest, above her heart
They talked about class or basketball, though they didn’t care about either
Your father introduced me to you, explained how I’d been at it, writing The Dollmaker in Detroit
Once Mei had finally learned enough English to differentiate the right-left right and the right-wrong right and the write-paper write
They appeared without warning in our bedrooms and living rooms and shopping malls
Within the abandoned two-story house in Allsbrook, South Carolina is the forgotten basement room where the light bulb was left on
A few miles outside of a small town in the English countryside named Dursley, the Cotswold way passed through a cow farm and then jutted upwards
One of the men was older, early-sixties perhaps, ex-FBI, so fit that when he wore polo shirts, which he usually did
The phone call with the social worker is brief. “I can’t,” I say.
