This is The Writers Voice, New Fiction from The New Yorker.

I'm Deborah Treisman, fiction editor at The New Yorker.

On this episode of The Writers's voice, we'll hear David Gilbert read his story,

Sacadia from the August 24th 2020 issue of the magazine.

Gilbert is the author of the Story Collection Remote Feed and Two Novels and Sons and The Normals.

Now here's David Gilbert. Sacadia. There was once a beginning and it's

It involves sprinklers and green grass, but that happened a long time ago.

Right now, it's Saturday night, the night of the big night in the internal return of suburban Cincinnati Summer of 1986.

The neighborhood in question could be Indian Hill or Oakley or Stetson Square, though in reality

it's Hyde Park that the boys are driving through

Fresh from their stop at Grader's ice cream which might elicit a few nods from the

locals in the know Grader's and its black raspberry chocolate chip, the flavor of choice for all three

boys.

They lick their cones in almost comedic unison, like their ten again, speed three-fourths of pleasure,

filling the cold against the human air,

the sweet smooth taste on their tongues,

the tart undertones,

the bits of chocolate like smaller, deeper holes, like memories within memories.

No matter how familiar, this moment is still a delight.

Best friends cruising together, on the cusp of senior year, the sky water-colored

in dark blues and greys and blacks, the moon eyeballing them through the clouds. On the radio, I got you by the split ends, which

could have been playing on the radio of every car on every street, the sound so big, so

...