Her voice warms the ears. She is like the curator of a museum. Inside the gym-size room she introduces me to residents seated at round plastic tables. An orderly in a white shirt is preparing the ball-hopper on stage. The room is clean and well lit.
Green trees wave outside wall-height windows.
He's a great writer. He has a conscience. She frowns, tightening thin lips. Pynchon's a punk. Stop scribbling on that pad.