Subterranean by Dana Cann
After a while, we were all breaking into our neighbors’ basements.
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I no longer harangue every desk nurse at every hospital for a taxonomic breakdown of her bills. I don’t ask for the numbers of the Benadryl, the water cups, the abdominal touches done with gloved hands. I am the most American I’ve ever been—she costs what she costs and I eat it.
After a while, we were all breaking into our neighbors’ basements.
In the South, you are given your first knife when you still have to climb the cabinet tops to reach the mason jars filled with your mawmaw’s mayhaw jelly.
At this time, the middle-aged commuter should be on the 07:15 fast local train. Instead, he’s lying face down on the road outside the station.