John Henry Fleming

Egret

Frank took up golf when he and his wife moved to Lost Lakes Preserve three months ago. He hadn’t bro­ken nine­ty, and today looked like the day. He’d cov­ered the front nine in 44, chipped in for birdie on 11, and holed a thir­ty-footer for anoth­er birdie on 14. Standing now on the 16th tee, he knew he had only to bogey his way in for an 89—a small thing, may­be, but he under­stood that

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Kate Axelrod

So Long

Ana grinned as she walked toward him, weav­ing her way through the heavy traf­fic of Canal Street. Michael smiled and pre­tend­ed to look some­thing up on his phone. It was late May but Manhattan felt like a desert that day; blind­ing sun­light and a dry, brit­tle kind of heat.