This is The Writer's Voice, new fiction from The New Yorker.

I'm Deborah Treasman, fiction editor at The New Yorker.

On this episode of The Writer's Voice, we'll hear David Gilbert read his story,

Zicadia, from the August 24th, 2020 issue of the magazine.

Gilbert is the author of the story collection Remote Feed and two novels,

and Sons and the Normals.

Now here's David Gilbert.

Sycadia.

There was once a beginning, and it involved sprinklers and green grass, but that happened a long time ago.

Right now, it's Saturday night, the night of the big night, in the internal return of suburban Cincinnati summer of 1986. The neighborhood in question could be Indian Hill,

or Oakley, or Stetson Square, though in reality it's Hyde Park that the boys are driving through,

fresh from their stop at Graders' ice cream, which might elicit a few nods from the locals in the

know, Graters and its black

raspberry chocolate chip, the flavor of choice for all three boys. They lick their cones in almost

comedic unison, like their ten again, speed three-fourths of pleasure, feeling the cold against

the humid air, the sweet smooth taste on their tongues,

the tart undertones, the bits of chocolate like smaller deeper holes, like memories within

memories. No matter how familiar, this moment is still a delight. Best friends cruising

together on the cusp of senior year. The sky watercoloured in dark

blues and grays and blacks, the moon eyeballing them through the clouds. On the radio, I got you by the

split ends, which could have been playing on the radio of every car on every street, The sound so big, so all-encompassing,

filling the night with its fear and longing, it's something wrong.

...