Authentic Roads

Ray Delacroix has driven a rig for BNSF out of Barstow for nineteen years, and he still remembers the

Renata Kowalski was pouring coffee into a chipped mug when she heard the screen door slam. Outside, in

A November morning, a silver-gray Buick parked in the driveway, hadn't moved in three days because

My name is Dorothy Halloran. I'm seventy-four, and my whole world got turned upside down the day

Marlene Cobb had exactly four hundred dollars left in her checking account and a half-restored Pontiac

My name is Ilan Marsh, I'm thirty-four, and until six weeks ago I never once thought about who was

Marlene Brandt stood with the lawyer's letter in her hand in front of the hallway mirror, the lines

The house sat at the edge of Millbrook, right off Route 9 toward Poughkeepsie, and every day the school

I run the coffee stand outside the ferry terminal in Key West, third window from the corner, the one

I was eight years old the winter my father hid a whole spiral-cut ham inside a duffel bag and wouldn'