Losing them, fixing them, forgetting to put them in
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Manuel Martinez’s fiction has appeared in the Quarterly and Blackbird. His dream is to live above a pizzeria so that he can fall asleep to the sound of hands slapping fat balls of dough. He lives in Gainesville, Florida.
She began cooking the stew at 5:41 A.M. on Thursday. Somewhere in the night her husband had, as was his habit, moved to the middle of the bed, and she’d found herself precariously perched between his chest and the edge of the mattress, the inhabitant of an inconsequential strip of bedding that had, over the past few years, become her home.
It began in the hospitals with what seemed to be an epidemic of miracles. The most recently dead came back first. People whose heartbeats had just flat-lined a second earlier suddenly sat upright on their gurneys and beds and looked into the confused faces of those around them.