Authentic Roads

"You clipped my mirror, ma'am." Denise Okafor pushed herself up off the wet pavement

I hadn't planned on going home for the long weekend at all. But my grandmother was turning eighty-one

The blizzard started around four. By six, the windshield wipers on my Outback were just smearing ice

Marcus Webb had worked nine years as a wilderness guide in the White Mountains of New Hampshire, and

I've worked laundry supervision at Whitfield Correctional in central Georgia for going on nineteen

We pulled into my mother's driveway in Eugene, Oregon at half past four on a Saturday afternoon

My brother called me crazy when I climbed that ladder in the middle of the night. Wind like a fist, sleet

My name is Barbara Wozniak, and I've run the neighborhood dry cleaner on Elm Street, on the corner

"Your mother's completely lost it," Renee complained into the phone, not noticing I stood

Seven years at a shelter outside Portland taught me one thing: don't look people in the eye.