To avoid being seen by their teachers or anyone in the frum community who might dob Yonatan in, they ignored the tram stop outside the 7-Eleven on the corner of Hotham and Balaclava and opted for one further down the road.
The probability of you: It’s close to a miracle in every sense of the word that you are holding this book in your hands.
Nineteen seventy-six was the year we covered up the death of a twelve-year-old boy, hiding his body from his family and the world forever.
This happened back in March of 2010, when the Philadelphia train station still had the kind of information board that clickety-clacked as the various gate assignments rolled up.
Could a building sweat? If someone were to ask him, Walter O’Brien would say no.
Lightning flashed, and Athena Strange began counting.
It is the middle of a hot and clammy afternoon at Police Headquarters in Algiers.
She stood before us, without notes, books or nerves. The lectern was occupied by her handbag.
The thirty-year-old mother of Madeline Zott rose before dawn every morning and felt certain of just one thing: her life was over.
Pippa Black stared out the kitchen window at the dusty sun-beaten paddocks beyond.
Why is it that just when you think you have all the answers, life starts asking all the wrong questions?
How this new condition changes language, not we or us or ours but I and me and mine, mine alone the hollow hours.
I’m sitting in my therapy room across from a young woman.
At the age of somewhere between forty and forty-two — he didn’t know exactly how old he was — Wilde finally found his father.
For us the voyage was a marvel. We were seeing the world: the Rock of Gibraltar, the Suez Canal, elephants in the main street of Colombo.
Everyone in my family has killed someone. Some of us, the high achievers, have killed more than once.