Chapter 48 · for subscribers
Children kick their sandals off at a step. They come off in a heap and they end up anywhere, and I know that because I was the one sweeping them into a pile for eleven years. Nine pairs stood in a line on that step, heel to the yard, toe to the door, the way the lane leaves its sandals at the bathhouse when the whole street has gone in together.
Artwork and narration generated with AI.