It began, Eleanor would remember later, when she caught him in the basement, masturbating—or so she thought, anyway, for a strange and topsy-turvy moment. She’d come home from work an hour early, at 4 p.m., to an empty kitchen and the faint hiss from below that meant he was in the basement with his trains. Halfway down the stairs she saw him, in the swivel chair by the tabl (...)
Fiction
Tunneling
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