A WRITER'S WIT
New Yorker Fiction 2017
Rating the Story
***—Excellent [includes profile]
** —Above Average [one-sentence description]
* —Average [one-sentence description]
“At two in the morning, the library closed and I walked home through the fresh snow. The clouds had cleared, revealing the stars. Light from even a nearby star was four years old by the time it reached your eyes. Where would I be in four years? I thought about it for a long time, but somehow I couldn’t picture it. I couldn’t picture any part of it at all” (65).