I still remember the first time I picked up a Jose Saramago novel, his words spilling out like a tangled mess of thoughts and emotions on the page. It was as if he’d taken all my innermost worries and doubts, mixed them with his own philosophical musings, and served them back to me in this …
I’m making toast in the kitchen while Pandora’s voice carries in from the living room, where she’s on the phone with her sister, pacing the way she always does when she’s trying to sound like she’s paying attention. I glance over at John Mercer, who’s on the couch with his eyes locked on his phone …
