My phone lights up. I have a new text from my aunt, a famous journalist. We haven’t spoken in a while. A cursory glance at her message is enough to let me know that the news isn’t good. I am filled with foreboding.
There are screenshots.
She has just been contacted out of the blue by a young woman whom I guess I would describe as a family friend,
I looked at my camera roll and realized that all of the pictures I have of myself from the past few months had been taken by DoorDash deliverymen (Dashers, as the app calls them).
It is a recent DoorDash policy to take a picture of the package once it’s been received by the customer, confirming the delivery. Most people let the Dasher leave the package at the front door,
Garlic Castle. I am nowhere. A thin trace, like glass, expanded through the air and sliced through our bodies. I asked Jeremiah if he had felt it go through us, like a curse. He didn’t know what I was saying. Only his chest and arms answered my enquiry; the rest of his body was immobile on the damp earth beside him. As for me, I’d felt the force slice through my chest and shoulder at an angle.