@connor.waskiewicz

You are standing in a kitchen in Dallas that is not yours, in a body that is not yours, and the refrigerator is humming the same note it has hummed for an hour. Dwight Kimbrell's knees hurt on the stairs. His belly sits… read on →

You are Harlan Pickett, and you are tired in the way a man gets when the house is asleep and his knees are not. Sixty-four. The kitchen light is off. You sit at a table that isn't yours, in a bald head that isn't yours,… read on →

Liam Gorecki's back hurts, and that is part of why you are leaving. You stand in his kitchen in the dark with the refrigerator humming. His forearms are black to the elbow with grease that the soap never gets out. The… read on →

You are standing at a line cook's sink in the dark, and you are leaving him because of the ladle. It is the third one tonight, the same hand you have worn for under a minute. Raúl Whitcomb's knuckles ache in the gray… read on →

You are leaving Jonah Park because of a ladder. Not the fall, there was no fall. Forty feet of scaffold on a grain elevator, a clean sky going pink at the edges before the sun, and your legs would not go over the rail.… read on →