
Jamie Quatro Reads “Yogurt Days”
The New Yorker: The Writer's Voice - New Fiction from The New Yorker
The House of Benjamin
The house smelled like scented toilet paper and something I couldn't identify. There was a mirror above the entry table, and in the dusky light from the open door, I saw myself in its reflection. The fridge too was stuffed with Gatorades, six packs of seven up, bottles of ensure. Medicines lined the door shelves, with times and dates on sticky notes.
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