
Zach Williams Reads “Wood Sorrel House”
The New Yorker: The Writer's Voice - New Fiction from The New Yorker
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The Night of the Dolls
They travelled along a mountain ridge two beautiful days, but had o double back when they came to a high chasm. The trees thinned. No more big pines, only firs, growing shorter and sparse until it happened so gradually she barely noticed. They saw black bears, three of them nosing along the mountain side. She stewed and ate nettles. She kicked mushrooms from tree trunks and roasted them. When max put both hands into the fire, she panicked and started to shout, then stopped and let him. Before them was nothing, nothing whatever.
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