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

He stood there for another few minutes before a boy and a girl ambled toward him, the boy not immediately recognizable as his son. It was Rowan, obvious now as the boy got closer, and Richard pretended he’d known all along. Wasn’t that what parents were supposed to do? Be able to spot their children in a crowd, in an instant, the most primal of recognitions? Learn about your ad choices: dovetail.prx.org/ad-choices

Kate and I looked at each other and shrugged. Hector was lonely and missing his children. It made sense. But then Kate noticed something, and that was when the holiday went irrecoverably wrong.  Learn about your ad choices: dovetail.prx.org/ad-choices

He pushes her against a tree, and even though his hand is somewhere else, the girl feels it on her throat. She can’t speak. She only squeaks. A shadow falls, as if to give them privacy. The man takes full advantage. “Get the fuck away from her.”There’s a sudden cracking sound, and the man whelps.  Learn about your ad choices: dovetail.prx.org/ad-choices