This is The Writer's Voice, new fiction from The New Yorker. I'm Deborah Triesman,

fiction editor at The New Yorker. On this episode of The Writer's Voice, we'll hear Lauren

Graf read her story to Sunland from the July 4th 2022 issue of the magazine. Graf is published

four novels, including Fates and Furies and Matrix, which came out last year. Her second

story collection, Florida, which was published in 2018, won the story prize and was a finalist

for the National Book Award. Now here's Lauren Graf.

Two Sunland. He woke to an angry house and darkness in the windows. Amazie had packed his

suitcase the night before and left it near the front door and so he dressed himself without

turning on the light and came out and dropped the pajamas on top of the suitcase. She was

in the kitchen banging the pans around. Buddy, she said when she saw him, set yourself down

and get some of this food in you. Her eyes were funny, all red and puffy and he didn't

like to see them like that. When he sat down, she came up behind him and hugged his head

so hard it hurt and her hands smell like soap and cigarettes and grease and he pulled away.

He ate her eggs, which were like his mother's eggs, though her biscuit was not like his mother's

biscuit. It was too dry and there was no tomato jam. When he was finished, she took his plate

and fork and washed them. I can't stand it. She said, I will never forgive that girl, not

as long as I live. All right, he said softly. I can't stay around to wash this. She said,

you get your shoes and coat on. I'm going to the door early so as I don't have to look

that selfish wicked girl in the face. She gathered her own things and swiped a thin red

line of lipstick on her mouth, then took her car keys from the hook and went out the front

door. There, she bent to put his pajamas in his suitcase and sat impatiently. You come

on outside, buddy. The rocking chair is comfortable enough for you to wait in our wager. I'll get

...