
Rachel Kushner Reads “A King Alone”
The New Yorker: The Writer's Voice - New Fiction from The New Yorker
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Getting to Memphis
The bartender came out from behind the bar and buggied with the old woman. He danced until his regulars started yelling at him to get back behind the bar. George left. It would be dark in a couple of hours. If he started now, he could make it to memphis. But wasn't it like that everywhere? More dead than living? As dusk transitioned to dark, the temperature dropped 30 degrees. Rain speckled his windshield. The rain lightened and then turned to gravelly pellets of ice. And as he slowed a little, he spotted a person on the side of the road, walking in pants, in a tea shirt, no jacket, with towering beech
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