A short story, published in The New Yorker, on May 29, 2018
“There is only one road out of here, and everyone we know is on it, moaning silently, I imagine, gently rending their summer linens at this unwelcome disruption. It gets tiring waving at them all—stressed-out, wrinkled accidents of the human form, with white hair, or no hair, or nubby yellow sun visors, grimacing, hunched over their steering wheels, as if they were being chased by men with guns.”
Read the story at The New Yorker.
