Steven Millhauser

Five past twelve. Do you know where your children are? The room is so hot that the heat is a hand gripping her throat. Got to move, got to do something. Moonlight is streaming in past the edges of the closed and slightly raised venetian blinds. She can’t breathe in this room, in this house. Oh man, do something. Do it. The crickets are growing louder.

but the thought disturbs her— she feels exposed, a girl in moonlight, out in the open, spied on. She doesn’t want anyone to look at her. No one is allowed to think about her body.

The inside of her skin itches. Her bones itch. So how do you scratch your bones?