
A. M. Homes Reads Shirley Jackson
The New Yorker: Fiction
Mr. Summers and Mr. Adams
A sudden hush fell on the crowd as Mr. Summers cleared his throat and looked at the list. The people had done it so many times that they only have listened to the directions. Most of them were quiet, wetting their lips, not looking around. Seems like there's no time at all between lotteries now, Mrs. Delacroix said in the back row.
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