This is the writer's voice, new fiction from the New Yorker. I'm Deborah

Treisman fiction at the New Yorker. On this episode of the writer's voice, we'll hear Matthew

Clam read his story The Liver from the March 16th 2020 issue of the magazine.

Clam is the author of the collection Sam the Cat and other stories and the novel

Who Was Rich, which was published in 2017. Now here's Matthew Klam. The liver.

In the morning, the blinds led in light.

I lay on a recliner against the wall with my coat wrapped around my head and heard the nurse

pump the blood pressure thing. I'd set up a barrier, a towel hanging over the back of a chair for privacy.

I'd been reclining here, listening to ice blow against the window

since about four.

Kathy sat up in bed, looking pale with blue lips and a puffy face.

She was still on morphine and seemed serene and angelic.

Another nurse walked in pushing a card and wanted to know if she'd felt milk coming out.

Kathy stiffly undid her robe and both her hands trembled and I saw the funny wept bandage

across her belly.

It was sort of threatening and serious and a little sickening,

but I was so happy I didn't care.

I got up then.

My pants were open. I shut them. The second nurse wheeled the cart to the edge of the

bed. She wore red lipstick, hoop earrings, and a tight bun that stood straight up on her

head like a bowling pin. She stepped back to let the first

nurse, who was older, explain the breast pumping machine. The older nurse was tall but

...