On a hot afternoon in late July, Daphne’s folks invite her to the kitchen. She hops onto her favorite, high-backed chair, folds her sticky hands in front of her, and waits. Her mother glances at her father. He nods. Her mother tucks her yellow hair back, takes a big breath through her nose, and starts.…

Because his father and his father’s father were both veterinarians, and because he could often be found carrying crickets and cockroaches to the outdoors in the cradle of his palms, all of us, including Mr. Cooper, assumed little Tim was destined to become a veterinarian, and that the state of Kansas’s career aptitude test, if…

And you decide to leave the brewery and go to dinner in separate cars, because even though it is your fifth date, he has still not made room for you in the cab of his truck, still has not moved the cherry-red, sixty-pound toolbox that squats in the passenger seat. And even though your car…

A woman screams in the middle of Dulles: it strikes you as odd, out of place this far through security. She is young, early thirties, and the sound she makes is plaintive and desperate and raw, animalistic. A man has stolen her backpack. He’s tall — perhaps six-five — and has short-cropped brown hair and…

The cardinal landed in the crabapple that was still draped in wet, spring snow, and it was something about the weight of the bird, the way the branch bent under it, that made Brea stand up and go for the shotgun. A few weeks ago, it had been a butterfly, which had followed her inside…

I. Allergies Maartje Dijkstra lives in a squeaky-clean apartment whose surfaces are scrubbed daily by the hands of others. Her legitimate excuse: she’s allergic to dust, pollen, mold, hairs, and latex. At the high-rise office near the Rotterdam port, she works in a private cubicle with squeaky-clean linoleum floors and glass partitions. The rest of…

My great-grandmother smoked two or three packs of Camels a day and lived to be ninety-four. A rank, collapsed, shambling ninety-four with a mole smack in the middle of her cheek, like a worry stone, but she had a full head of blue-white hair in big natural curls and waves, like its own smoke from…

On Saturday Daniel Morgenthau decided to stop eating. He made no formal announcement; he was not one to make a fuss. He’d quit smoking almost fifty years ago much the same way. Didn’t finish his pack but left it on the kitchen table, forgotten, until Muriel smoked them herself and complained at their taste. She…

Robbie is lanky and pallid. He keeps rocking onto his toes like there is something to see over the heads of the volunteers crowding the sidewalk. He asks me what I think we should do. Let’s talk to that guy in the red vest, I say, but before we can reach him, the guy dashes…

Dana Diehl is a scientist. Her stories run the gamut of scientific inquiry: biology, ecology, zoology, anatomy, astronomy and geology all make cameos in her debut collection, Our Dreams Might Align. Whether through worms or wormholes, Diehl’s characters are experimenting, as is she. In the opening story, “We Know More,” a couple are both victimized and…

1. Spent After they fucked for the first time, their faces still stinging from the sleet coming down outside, she said, “That was lovely.” She said it again the next day and that night. She would say it whenever they fucked. When brow was lifted from brow, when knees fell slack, when toes curled or…

The baby is born at home. This isn’t planned. In a blizzard in Wisconsin, she slips out of her mother and is wrapped, a slush of vernix and blood, in a white towel. The mother’s womb begins to pulse, again, trying to get back to its place in her empty belly, like it was before.…