Fiction | September 01, 2001

When the phone rang, I was in bed inder the covers, trying to stay warm.  As I ran to answer, I saw that it was snowing again.  I’d been in Wisconson, America’s frozen dairy land, nearly six years, so I should have been used to it, but I was a Florida girl at heart, and each took me by suprise.  “Alice Anne?” a voice said.  My name came out slurred, like it was Allison.

If you are a student, faculty member, or staff member at an institution whose library subscribes to Project Muse, you can read this piece and the full archives of the Missouri Review for free. Check this list to see if your library is a Project Muse subscriber.