A long time ago, when I used to read New Yorker features, I frequently passed over the fiction section. It always came in the same place (after the beginning and middle, and before the end) and was pre-faced by a scintillating image, and was always the same number of pages, etc. But this month I've read two stories, both reasonably good, and one of them has provided me with the best image (mental, imagined, not photographed) of the month (it's a spoiler): a father, in order to save his daughter, has to eat a live human heart in a sandwich. Read The Fountain House, by Ludmilla Petrushevskaya.
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