You press your forehead against the kitchen window, trying to see details in your garden, heat presses back like a fever.
“We are made of star stuff,” Alex tells me.
She could barely make him out. He—she was certain the figure was a he—was a fleck, a disturbance on the horizon, and—this was another certainty—he was coming her way.
Sarah never said it, but she agreed with the other kids that riding on the bus over Meredith Moore’s skull felt like riding over a big rock.
I am letting you listen to Ahmed’s thoughts. It’s important that you know this, because he only speaks Arabic, he only thinks in Arabic, and that’s not a language you understand.
Onscreen, the pug pulls away just as Mrs. Hernandez in 7C calls to complain about an awful noise coming from the roof.
Every time I walk through this Summit train station, the first thing that hits me is the vinegar stench of piss from the men’s room...