This is the writer's voice, new fiction from the New Yorker. I'm Deborah

Treisman, fiction editor at the New Yorker. On this episode of the writer's voice,

we'll hear Claire Sistanovich read her story Old Hope

from the December 9th 2019 issue of the magazine.

Sistanovich is working on her first collection of stories. This is her first story in the magazine.

Now here's Claire Sistanovich.

Old Hope

When I was about halfway between 20 Old Hope.

When I was about halfway between 20 and 30, I lived in a large rundown house that other people thought

was romantic.

There was a clawfoot tub with squeaky knobs and philodendrons that draped over the banisters.

The door to my bedroom was at least 12 feet tall.

I installed a coat rack over the top, and whenever I needed to retrieve a jacket or a towel I stood on my desk chair, swiveling uncertainly.

There were six of us in the house. We were all about the same age and at some point during the summer I had moved

in at the beginning of March when the mornings were still cold, veins of ice glittering

over the front steps. This became clusterphobic, unbearable. The house smelled of sweat and bike tires and

something at the back of the oven being charred over and over again. Two boys lived on the

top floor and another lived in the basement. They weren't

men, not really. I was aware of being surrounded.

Shirtless, they cooked big vats of tomato sauce, the steam beating on their faces, and clinging to the

fur in their armpits.

They smoked bongs they didn't clean and returned my books warped by bathwater. One afternoon while a desk fan word near my cheek, I composed a long

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