Small May Be Beautiful but Will It Move?

LAKE ERIE. Dead.” She says it triumphantly, between healthy mouthfuls of fettuccine alfredo. “Dead.” As her elders would have spoken of a setback in Vietnam. She’s working pretty good on the Soave too: somebody’s dewy daughter home from Academe’s angry wars.

“Howdya mean, dead?” Her escort. Skeptic; drone.