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“Jen Michalski’s second novel is an intense emotional commitment, but a worthwhile one.” – Ploughshares


“Jen is an astonishingly sensitive writer.” – HTML Giant


“Jen Michalski excels in subtlety that is made possible by her nuanced understanding of voice.” – The Rumpus


“Jen is a writerly heavyweight.” – Nate Brown, American Short Fiction


“We’re lucky to have Michalski before the rest of the world discovers her. But they will.” – Baltimore City Paper

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Morning thunder

We woke between five and six this morning because of a sudden thunderstorm. The window was open a crack, and the atmospheric turbulence swirled around the grey-pink dusk of the room, sending Shirley off the bed and clicking back and forth across the hardwood floor, an occasional dive under the dresser. The thunder's guttural whisper closed in on us, releasing a shower in its wake, a reminder that spring would be here in a few days with its requisite rains and pollens and blossoms. I forced my eyes closed, knowing I'd need that extra hour or two of sleep when early afternoon came, such that it has, now, but it was too delicious to miss. I pulled at Phuong. I felt very loved. I stayed awake and watched the night fade into morning.

Only Shirley was very unhappy by these developments. A shaking, panting mess, she crawled between our heads after pacing the floor for a half hour and laid on my pillow, her brown marble eye looking at me until it was safe to go to sleep.