It was so hot even the birds quit singing. I sat in front of the window fan drinking iced ginger ale and watching the bubbles rise while my dear Doyle thrashed around his old trunk in the spare room. Ugly, God, he was ugly. He ranted about Alan being the liar supreme and cursed Alan so bad I knew he feared him. “I hate that bastard, Annie,” Doyle said. “I hate everything about him from his pointy toed boots to his goddamned hat.” I set my glass on the maple table, heedless of the water ring it would leave and went to Doyle and closed his trunk. “The shotgun’s not in there,” I said. “You’ve got yourself all worked up.” I lay a quiet hand on his, but with his other he yanked open the trunk. “Why isn’t it?” he yelled. Alan and his big hat barged in and yelled just as loud as Doyle. “Thief!” He brandished a bayonet. I slipped through the doorway to the porch and peeked through the window above the …

The rusted-out pickup rumbles down Main Street. A girl, all of five and all smiles, rides shotgun. The air is warm, the summer sun bright. The girl leans out the window the way her golden retriever, Lottie, often does. The wind twists and tangles the girl’s long, sandy hair and— The passenger door flies open. The girl drops to the asphalt and tumbles to a stop. Faulty door latch. No seatbelt. No broken bones! No stitches! The girl is lucky to be alive. Had she landed on her head and not the backside of her corduroys, she surely would have died. Or so the story goes. The bank teller, the barber, and the barmaid of Main Street will recount it for years to come, along with every eyewitness at Auchenbach’s Laundromat and Vi’s five and dime. Always they will tell the tale in the astonished, reverent tone reserved for the proclamations of miracles—the boy who walked away from the plane crash! the face of Jesus that appeared in a bowl of chowder! “Happened right in …

Instead of circling the rows of parked cars by the entrance, Wren settled for a spot near the back of the lot. When she began running errands, the early spring sun was just above the horizon; presently, it cast short shadows. She slipped off her jacket and tossed it onto the passenger seat before stepping out of her vehicle and walking toward the big-box retailer. From inside the store, an elderly gentleman watched the automatic doors pull apart and recognized the change in Wren’s expression as she entered. In his line of work, he had grown accustomed to this phenomenon. He greeted her, but his words failed to register. She stood perplexed, partially blocking the store’s entrance. Other customers politely slipped around her, like water in a stream, redirected by a protruding rock. “Something I can help with, ma’am?” the old man tried. She looked at him, nonplussed by his question. “No, thanks. I, uh—sorry,” she sputtered. “Forget why you’re here?” His close-lipped smile revealed a hint of satisfaction. Wren’s mouth opened, then closed again. …

Smell He draws me closer; I take a breath. I love his earthy smell and want to store more of it deep inside my lungs, for nostalgia and motivation. I linger. I smell foliage. It is soothing and relaxing. No wonder he is falling asleep. Hearing He yawns, and a quiet huff escapes into the air. I want to kiss him, so I bring my lips to his, but he is so peaceful, I freeze and listen to his calm, steady exhales. Like wind whispering through tall grass. Sight He is handsome; it is getting harder to suppress the urge to kiss. His face is expressive, powerful and strong, and I am curious if he is already seeing the dreams. Or if he ever does. He lies still, then hugs me. It is warm here, and soft. Taste I cannot resist anymore – I peck his nose, not sure if he notices. It is salty; now, my mouth is too. I lick my lips and swallow; I can taste the waters of a brine lake. …

It began as a hobby over lockdown. The sourdough starter was a gift from his watchful neighbour, Marge. Before that, David had no interest in baking. He’d always been perfectly content with his shop bought pan. But soon he found himself setting four-a.m. alarms, getting up to feed the culture with the attentiveness of a new father. He liked that the starter needed him. A living being under the same roof. He could talk to it, like you might a dog or a houseplant. The starter was pallid and frothy, like cottage cheese that had got a little too excited. Its smell: acerbic, eye-watering if he leaned in too close. Soon David found he was making more bread than he could eat. He gave fresh loaves to neighbours and visited soup kitchens and shelters with his surplus goods. The more he fed the starter, the greedier it got. He couldn’t say exactly when it happened, but soon he was up four or five times a night, sleepwalking to the kitchen to feed his growing charge. …