This is The Writer's Voice, new fiction from The New Yorker. I'm Deputy Treesman, fiction editor at The New Yorker.

On this episode of The Writer's Voice, we'll hear Alexander McLeod read his story once removed from the February 7th, 2022 issue of the magazine.

McLeod is the author of the story collection, Lightlifting, which was published in 2010 and shortlisted for the Franco Conor International Short Story Award.

The second story collection, Animal Person, will be published in April. Now here's Alexander McLeod.

Once removed, she did not want to visit the old lady. Amy studied the stroller, then the bags, then her boyfriend, and the baby. She checked her phone, 11.26 a.m. It was time to go.

90 degrees, 90% humidity, and according to Google, more than an hour each way. Each stage had its own icon like the Olympic events, and all the separate minutes were broken up then totaled at the end.

Walk 10 men, train 36 men, bus 15 men, walk 9 men. Nothing could be worth this much effort on a hot Sunday afternoon.

A board mission, she said, abort, just call her up and say we're sorry, but the baby's not right, and we can't make it. She showed Matt the phone.

Are you seeing these numbers? It's a furnace out there.

Matt was holding Ella over his shoulder and doing the humming and bouncing trick, trying to lull her into an early nap. Her eyes were already closed and her breathing was slowing down.

A creamy, rivulet of drool ran down his spine. He nearly had her gone.

He stared at the phone, then her, Amy. Too late for that now, he said.

Might have had a chance last night, but you know she's been cookin' since six this morning.

He clicked the baby into the stroller and pulled the diaper bag over his shoulder, then tossed the other backpack in Amy's direction.

Come on, picture her. Everything's already set. It's all done, and now she's sittin' there with her tea, watching the clock and waiting for us to arrive.

Amy should never have picked up that phone, the landline. There was only one person who made it ring.

So I was thinking, next Sunday at one, okay? This was before hello, before anything at all.

Great, Amy had asked, and then she was already on polite autopilot.

Next Sunday? One? I think we can do that. Yes, thanks so much. We'll see you then.

Good dear, good, but don't be late, okay? One on the dot, ring the buzzer, then click, then dial tone, then Amy standing there the receiver in her hand.

Is it possible that Great Walker does not even know who I am, like she doesn't know my name?

She asked these questions into the air. No, Matt said no way. He was categorical about this and it made her feel better.

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