“I don’t believe in France.”

A special edition of my favorite short story of all time including an illustration by Audrey Niffenegger! How on earth did I miss this?

“Hi,” Tilly said. She sounded as if she were asking a question.
Tilly never liked talking to people on the telephone. How were you supposed to know if they were really who they said they were? And even if they were who they claimed to be, they didn’t know whether you were who you said you were. You could be someone else. They might give away information about you, and not even know it. There were no protocols. No precautions.
She said, “Did you brush your teeth this morning?”
“Good morning, Tilly,” her father (if it was her father) said. “My toothbrush was fine. Perfectly normal.”
“That’s good,” Tilly said. “I let Carleton use mine.”
“That was very generous,” Henry said.
“No problem,” Tilly said. Sharing things with Carleton wasn’t like having to share things with other people. It wasn’t really like sharing things at all. Carleton belonged to her, like the toothbrush.


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