Best American Short Stories

It's that time again, time to surprise, delight, and provoke you with selected

“shorts' annual celebration of fiction from the best American short stories.”

Join Reader Cynthia Nixon and me, Meg Wallitzer, for stories of the unexpected from the 2025 volume edited by the author of Little Fires Everywhere, Celeste A. One of our favorite things to do at selected shorts is to celebrate each year's new volume of the best American short stories. Not only do we often discover new and exciting writers and get to read their arresting

and powerful works, we get to hear how each year's guest editor created their list of bests. I myself was guest editor in 2017, and I enjoyed sharing that process. The guest editor of the 2025 volume was the novelist Celeste A.

author of everything I never told you, little fires everywhere, and our missing hearts.

And we've chosen two stories that reflect some of the big things A. was thinking about when she made her selections, that fiction provides insight into the actual world, and that stories build empathy by asking us to imagine ourselves in someone else's position. Here is the series editor Nicole Lamey speaking about working with A.

on this year's story selection. I read more than 3,000 stories this year, so I don't get out much. But the stories I read have been excellent company as has Celeste A. I was so lucky to have the chance to work with Celeste.

“I knew her a little before this year, so I was confident that she had the two most important”

qualities for this job. She's a very fast reader, and she has excellent taste. What surprised me though was her willingness to read, resolutely, and with joy, all the stories that I deposited on her front porch in reusable grocery bags, we live in the same neighborhood, so that was my delivery system this year, and then to encourage me to send her more.

I included stories of all lengths from wildly eclectic points of view, and in many different genre mashups. Her openness allowed me to pass on to her, all the stories that stayed with me long after I first read them. Each of the stories in the table of contents, and on the list of distinguished stories

at the back of the book, made little rooms in my brain that I can still well into my second

year of reading for Best America and short stories, revisit whenever I need a little jolt of wonder.

“And since she can't be here tonight, I'd like to read some sections from Celeste's beautiful”

introduction to the collection about the four characteristics that she looked for in her final list of stories. First and foremost, Celeste writes, "The story had to grab me. The best comparison I can find is that it's a lot like falling in love, you either have chemistry or you don't, and often it defies rational explanation.

Second, the story had to feel complete. I don't mean that everything gets resolved at the end, but I wanted a sense that the writer had considered the story holistically, and that all the pieces fit together. Even if every corner of the picture wasn't fully revealed. Edward the language in the story had to be of the highest caliber.

If a piece didn't have sentences that startled or surprised me, or images that took my breath away with their absolute rightness, it usually didn't make the cut.

And finally, stories had to have heft.

They didn't have to be serious or sad. In fact, quite a few of the pieces in the yes pile made me laugh out loud. But I wanted the sense that the author wrote this story because they had to, that the story was following them like ghost, topping them insistently on the shoulder, moving the furniture and rattling the walls, demanding to be told.

[Applause] While aim couldn't make it for the live show, Cynthia Nixon a long time member of the short family stepped into host. Best known as a principal on Sex in the City, she's most recently been very busy in programs such as the Gilded Age, so we joked that this was one job that did not require

a corset. Here is Nixon reading from Inns Introduction to the book. [Applause] Good evening, good evening everyone, and welcome to selected shorts. I am Cynthia Nixon, your host for tonight, and if thank you, and if you have not seen me

couple hours.

“I posted selected shorts many times both here and on the radio, and I have to say I love”

being an actor, but literature is my first love, both new and classic, and if there is only

one thing I love more than literature, it is literature read out loud. As you may know, the best American short stories collection has been the foundation for many a selected shorts show. The team has selected short scours the collection each year to shape a show around some of their favorite stories.

We rely on the guest editor of that year's collection to provide insight about why they chose a story for Best American out of the thousands of stories published in magazines and small journals the previous year. The editor of the 2025 edition is Celeste Ang, the author of novels including Little Fires Everywhere and Our Missing Hearts.

Her work has been featured several times on selected shorts, and she herself has been

a host of the live show.

“To give you an idea for selection process, we wanted to share with you a telling excerpt”

from her introduction to Best American 2025. It might feel a little strange to look to fiction, made up stories for any kind of insight into the actual world. At the moment, I'm writing this introduction, I'm quite pessimistic about the state of our country to put it extremely mildly.

So maybe when we live in unrealistic times, the unrealness of fiction can actually provide a useful distance, allowing us to see our own times more clearly. Obviously, this doesn't mean when you read a story you suddenly find yourself in agreement with its characters or author. Stories are not magic spells, but stories build our empathy by asking us to imagine what

it's like to be in someone else's position, thinking their thoughts and feeling their feelings. Unlike disinformation, a short story tells you upfront that it is fiction. And when you know it's all just pretend, you're often more willing to play along. OK, sure. I'll step into this world.

It's all pretend anyway.

“It's like taking a weekend trip to a place you've never been and aren't sure if you like,”

but hey, it's only a weekend, right? That was simply an exciting reading from Celeste Ing's introduction to the 2025 anthology.

Now here she is performing the first selection, an early departure by Jessica Treadway.

Treadway is the author of Four novels and Three Story Collections, including "I felt my life with both my hands." In early departure, it wasn't the best time for me to be out of the office, but my niece asked, so of course I went. The train rides to New York took four hours.

For quite a few years, when my niece was little, we used to meet up there, all of us, on a Saturday and autumn, my sister and her two children, my mother and me, arriving from different places by train and having a hectic stand-up lunch at Penn Station before checking into our hotel. We'd go to a show, eat at John's Pizza afterward, then walk through Times Square with us

grown-ups, flanking the kids. Though looking back, I wonder how much protection we could have provided if anyone really wanted to get at them. We were only three women with not much weight amongst us. Still we would have had the advantage of our investment in the children's safety, which

counts for a lot. My sister and I look alike, and my niece looks like both of us, and I knew that anyone seeing me hold Tanya's hand back then, as we stroll down the street, might easily take me for her mother. I savored this more than I should have, but I figured it didn't hurt anybody.

Nobody else had to know. Before bedtime on those Saturday nights, we hung out together in one of the hotel rooms, just catching up and watching the kids goof around. One year my sister booked a hotel with a rooftop pool, and how much fun was that. Watching my niece and nephew laugh and splash under the stars.

Another year we arranged the trip around my 40th birthday, and they sang to me over a red velvet cake from Magnolia Bakery. I got the impression that they all made a special effort to give me a nice time, knowing how I might feel turning 40 with no children of my own. Nobody said this out loud, but they were right that I felt a certain way, and the celebration

helped in the moment, even though it made me sadder when I was alone on the train back to Boston the next day. Back then I liked to read quotes from successful women about not having children.

that doesn't mean you're not mothering."

“"I'm mothering," I told myself, "whenever I spent time with my sister's kids, so they”

didn't come out of my vagina, is that such a big deal?" On Sunday mornings of those weekends we ate brunch together before we all headed back to Penn Station for our ride's home on three different tracks. They were short visits, sometimes not even a whole 24 hours, but they were the most alive and comforting times I can remember.

The kids so captivated by the novelties they saw around them, pretzels the size of their faces, horse buggy's in central park, and so eager to join the scene. The year my nephew Henry was nine, I bought him a stuffed frog from a street vendor, and Henry promptly named the frog "hoppy," placed it on his head and proceeded to walk around that way the entire day.

My mother was healthy enough to walk long distances with us from the park all the way down

Fifth Avenue to where we always stayed near Rockefeller Center.

Tanya works there now, apprenticing to writers for a comedy sketch show. It's her dream job straight out of college.

“The one she told us she wanted when she was 11 and we all took the NBC backstage tour.”

The others of us smiled and said, "Of course, she would get a job like that, though none of us really believed it." But we should never have doubted her. Once when she was three, we went to a minor league baseball game and our seats were across the stadium from a pop-up carnival.

Tanya caught sight of the Ferris wheel, pointed to let us know she was headed there and took off. My sister and I followed the whole way keeping her safe without her knowing, and we were

amused, but more that a little unsettled when the baby never looked back.

Tanya asked me to come see her in the city and followed this up with a second request which was not to tell her mother. This was tricky because she wouldn't say why, but I convinced myself it had something to do with wanting to surprise her mother somehow. My sister's birthday wasn't for another six months and it wasn't a big one, but in this

way I allowed myself to honor Tanya's request and to book my train tickets without mentioning it to my sister in our every other day, text exchange. Why Tanya herself didn't just tell me whatever she needed to in a text or email. I couldn't guess, though it would become clear all too soon. Why she wanted to see me in person.

My niece apologized for not being able to put me up, but of course I understood. This was New York. She shared a two bedroom walk-up with two friends from college, one of them paid a little less and slept in the dining alcove. I remembered such arrangements from being young myself, though in Boston, not New York.

When I got older, I would never have wanted to live in the same circumstances, but at

the time it was fun. Besides, I could afford a nice hotel room. I checked in early and then met Tanya at one of the subterranean restaurants at 30 rock. It was January and from our table we watched the skaters on the ring outside.

I hadn't seen her in half a year since we'd all gotten together in the place my mother lived to celebrate her big birthday. That I was glad to see that my niece hadn't changed much since then. One of my favorite things about her had always been her sweetness. And I admit that when she first told me she was moving there, I was afraid the city might

turn her head. How's grandma? She asked. I wish she could still make the trip down here, but she seems to be doing better than a lot of people her age.

I agreed and kept myself from reminding her that she could always inquire of grandma herself how grandma was doing. I didn't want to start off on a rocky foot. I'd speculated a lot, of course, about why Tanya had asked me to make the trip down. Did she need money and hesitated to ask her parents?

Had something happened, she didn't want them to know about, was she pregnant and sought my advice? I can't deny it made me feel special to have been summoned. My niece said she needed me so I dropped everything and went. It's about Henry, she said, after the server had left the table.

I knew she'd ordered the least expensive item on the menu because she expected me to insist on paying which I would. He's in trouble. What kind? In the moment before concern hit, I felt surprised.

Her brother, a senior in college, had always been a quiet kid. Not afraid to go his own way, but not interested in ruffling any feathers, either.

“At least that's how it always seemed to me.”

It was hard to tell because of the quietness.

about his eyes.

“He seemed to enjoy our family visits, never hiding in his room, or otherwise retreating”

when we were all together. I couldn't imagine what sort of trouble my niece might be talking about. He'd gotten himself involved in a hacking scheme, Tanya told me. There were plenty of kids at his school who knew how proficient he was at finding his way around various systems and plenty who needed their grades boosted and would pay to have

it done. Slowly I repeated Tanya's words aloud, gotten himself involved. You make it sound as if he couldn't help it, as if he had no choice. I noticed that my hand was trembling as I reached from my water glass. Tanya saw it too, and I wouldn't call that getting in trouble.

I'd call it committing a crime. She sucked her breath in barely audibly and sat back in her chair. I didn't expect you to be so harsh, she said, "This is Henry we're talking about."

“I know, it chilled me to see the look of distrust in her eyes, you think I'm not upset?”

And then through the sense channel that connects women and a family, our mutual minds eye, I could see we were both remembering the day her brother walked around New York with his favorite new stuffy balanced on top of his head, "Oh, hoppy, I put my hand to my throat." She leaned closer, and I could see she was wearing the butterfly necklace I'd given her

on her 16th birthday. My immediate response was to be flattered, but this was followed by a flash of insight. I wish I could ignore. She'd worn the necklace to butter me up. It's not like it was a crime, she said.

Somehow I managed not to exclaim how delusional was she, how willing to ignore what she knew

never mind common sense to believe what she wished to be true.

“"Yeah, yeah," I said, then waited for her to look directly at me, hacking into someone”

else's database and changing the data is absolutely a crime. "Oh, I know," she said, not bothering to hide her irritation, but it didn't start out like that. She went on to recount the story of a crush her brother had on a girl who seemed to like him back, but it turned out she only made nice so he changed her civics grade.

I could tell how hurt Tanya had been to hear this on her brother's behalf, and I remembered the kick it had always given me to hear her use old-timey phrases like "made nice." So she dumped him afterward, I asked, "What made her think he wouldn't just go into the system again and change it back?" Because she said, "She knew him enough to tell what kind of guy he is."

So where does it stand? Did someone expose him? Is there an investigation? Tanya nodded. The college's disciplinary board, he's afraid he's going to be expelled.

And after that, the dean said they might involve the police. He hasn't told your parents, "No," and he doesn't want them to find out. The server came and put our lunches in front of us, neither of us reached for a fork. "Why are you telling me then?" I asked, "The way of course I already knew."

It chilled me again to see how much in that moment she hated me for making her come out and say it. We thought, because of your job, you might be able to, but she couldn't finish. Instead, she dropped her face toward her chest and began to sob.

"I'm sorry, Aunt Kim, I should never have asked you.

I know it's shitty, I know it's wrong and trust me, Henry does too, but he begged me. He didn't think he would do it if he asked, but he knows you're like a second mother to me, ah, those words, a second mother. They're meant to be a compliment, one of the highest, but the person they are addressed to, the person's so named, understands all too well how far the second mother falls short of

the first. My sister had often referred to me as a second mother in relation to her own children, especially Tanya. I knew she meant well and wanted to make me feel good. And I would have felt touched by my niece using the phrase now, except that I realized

she was doing so in an effort to get what she and her brother wanted. So she had become a little hard after all. I know she would not have relished this task of trying to secure my help, but she had her

priorities in order and her brother came first.

She was still the girl who set out for her destination with no intention of letting anyone stop her along the way. I'm sorry, yeah, yeah, I told her, and there was a considerable part of me that was sorry, the part that should have done what any mother would do, but I really can't intervene,

“not that I think I actually could help even if I did.”

Yes, you could, they'd listen to you. She was pleading. I saw that her eyes were dry and concluded with a tumbling crash inside me that her sobbing had been fake. Knowing I had defined a way to steal myself, I pretended I was speaking to a potential

client I'd never met before, instead of my beloved niece.

I told her that matters like these had nothing to do with the ones I dealt with in my job. Even if the college did contact the police and press charges, my reach, my jurisdiction in a different kind of agency and a different state wouldn't come close. But it wasn't only that it wouldn't work or that I might get exposed, I told her. It would be the wrong thing to do, that I had to say this made me feel like crying myself,

and the truth was that I said it even before I'd finished mentally running through the sequence of people I might conceivably call to make life easier on my nephew.

“I know it doesn't seem like it right now, I said, but even if I did try to help, it wouldn't”

be the best thing for Henry. Why not?

He's learned his lesson, he'll never do anything like this again.

But he did it this time, and it wasn't a momentary lapse of judgment. That kind of thing has to be thought out, it has to be planned. It's better for him to face the consequences in the long run, trust me. She had zero intention of trusting me. It's like a tell from her face, so you're not even going to try.

Her eyes prick like points of glass. Oh, honey. In that moment, I understood that the most rewarding and significant aspect of my existence, the role that had sustained me and buoyed me for more than 20 years, in an otherwise lonely life, had just come to an end.

I can't.

“Before I arrived, I'd hope she'd bring me back to her office and show me around.”

She'd mention something on the phone when we made arrangements to this effect, but it

became clear after I paid the check. After we took the escalator back up to the lobby, that she intended for us to part ways. I hugged her. I hugged her. Not wanting to let go, even though I knew she'd already slipped away from me to a place

I'd not be allowed to enter, even if I did ever manage to find it again. I'd book the hotel room for that night expecting that Tanya would let me treat her and her friends to a dinner they wouldn't have been able to afford on their own. I confess I had fantasies about how proud she'd feel of her cool and generous aunt, and the way the girls would hug and thank me when we stepped out of the restaurant.

But now I didn't need the room on top of which I wanted only to get away from the city. I canceled at the hotel even though it was too late to get a refund. Then wheeled my bag to Penn Station where I changed my return ticket which cost me a fee, but it was worth it. M-track would not be able to hurtle me home fast enough.

Home? Well, no, but back to where I belonged. On the right to Boston, I sat on the side that gave a view of the water when there was water to see. In New London, a young mother got on with a boy who was about two years old and miserable,

crying not for any particular reason but for the sake of crying. It's easy to tell the difference if you spend any time around kids. I helped her collapse his stroller and offered him the bag of crackers I'd bought at the station but not yet opened. The mother fell all over herself thanking me and the crackers distracted him for a while,

but when the bag was empty he threw it on the floor and started crying again. I couldn't change my seat, not only because the train was full but because the mother would know why I moved and I didn't want to make her feel bad. I pulled out a folder and tried to look at some work but it was futile. Partly this was because of the boy's whining but mainly it had to do with how sick I felt

about the scene I just had with my knees. At one point I sighed and let my glance fall across the aisle. The mother seemed to take this as an invitation. She leaned over and whispered "It gets easier, right?" In a tone that attempted lightness but couldn't conceal the desperation it contained.

of passing. You'll be amazed," I said.

“And something about the way I pronounced the word must have intrigued the boy or tickled him.”

The buzzies sound because he paused in his crying to look up at me and smile. I smiled back.

The mother jumped on it, grabbing first one toy and then another out of the diaper bag

at her feet and these distractions finally took hold. Her son became immersed in a handheld pinball game and stayed quiet for the rest of the ride. I felt a wave of pride. I knew to be ridiculous but it blunted the despair I'd boarded with.

Only later pulling into my station after they had gotten off a few steps before did the truth set in. Clutching my work bag tighter than necessary as I stepped onto the platform.

“I realized that of course I hadn't fooled the boy as I had his mother.”

Didn't I understand children better than that?

He'd smiled at me not because I'd charmed him but to let me know he recognized a liar when he saw one. Jennifer Aniston could pretend all she wanted but this kid wasn't about to let me get away with offering a promise that wasn't mine to make. Cynthia Nixon performed an early departure by Jessica Treadway.

I'm Meg Walitzer. As any writer can tell you, one of the hardest things to do is to create complete characters who seem to step out of the lives you've created for them. There are so many short stories about motherhood, it's a subject that's been featured frequently on this show over the years and this story certainly deals interestingly with

ideas about motherhood but we don't tend to hear a lot about anthood. In fact, anthood is a word I don't even know that I've ever heard anyone say before. In this story, Jessica Treadway also explores, well, niecehood, which often seems to be a sort of recipient state, the ant providing generosity and making sure that there are none of the tensions that might exist between a mother and daughter.

But because the story is psychologically complex, the roles aren't as clear as they initially seem to be.

“I think an early departure was chosen for best-American because of the surprising dynamic”

between the two women and also because Treadway keeps the story going past the ending of the visit, taking it onto the train where the protagonist freed of her family possibly reveals something if only for a fleeting moment to a stranger who is probably too young to ever remember it. When we return a room that may or may not exist, you're listening to selected shorts

recorded live in performance at Symphony Space in New York City and at other venues nationwide. Welcome back, this is selected shorts where our greatest actors transport us through the magic of fiction, one short story at a time, I'm Meg Wallitzer. On this week's program we're celebrating the volume of the best-American short stories 2025, with two of the stories chosen by guest editor Celeste Ng.

We've partnered with this distinguished anthology for many years and stories from early volumes are part of our archive. You can also find plenty of other great works, some from curated collections, some are staff just loved on our website. You can also hear recent episodes of our podcast and please join our extended literary

family by subscribing. Our second story from the Best American Short Stories 2025 is third room by Mexican-American writer, Julian Robles. This work has been published in the Drift and Washington Square review among other journals. Reader Ivan Hernandez has many theater credits, including Dear Evan Hansen and Into the Woods.

On television you'll know him from series like "And Just Like That" and "Never Have I Ever."

Here he is, reading "Third Room" by Julian Robles. In November, my landlord and her family left the city to celebrate the abrupt cessation of her husband's paralysis. They planned to visit Durango, where she had grown up, and Quintana Ru, where the daughter's Godfather lived.

The family was feeling hopeful. All of us were.

had asa on the building's top floor.

“I kissed their baby on the head, hugged the husband, and wished them luck.”

In response to her husband's paralysis, which began shortly before I moved into the apartment in July, the landlord had purged a number of habits from her life and replaced them with healthier alternatives. She encouraged me to do the same. To show my solidarity with her and with the sick man, I stopped listening to podcasts

while making breakfast. I practiced yoga and taped my lips shut before bed. There were other changes, too. I stopped reading novels with nameless protagonists. Instead of poking and counting the benign lipomas under my ribs, I plucked the outer edges

of my eyebrows. The night before they embarked on their trip, the landlord invited me to dinner. Her family lived in the apartment directly above mine.

“The landlord's husband now healthy, I judged it appropriate to bring to her attention”

certain features of the apartment in need of repair, low water pressure in the shower,

a loose door knob flickering lights, and naturally, the issue in the third bedroom.

But out of respect for their solemn dinner time recollections of the husband's illness, I postponed broaching these issues. I sent a couple of Curtis text messages a day after they left, which, because she was a relatively benignit landlord, received prompt responses in the form of animated stickers and gifts.

Her favorite animations tended to mirror the tone of my messages or the mood of the conversation, clips of conglies and dancing raccoons when my rent payments cleared. A meme of a terrifying chihuahua, the afternoon I locked myself out of the apartment. Rarely did she reply with words, "That morning, frantic baby pandas spun beneath my list of grievances."

At the top of the list was the man who had been living in the third bedroom of the apartment since at least September. To explain both my delayed discovery of him and my tolerance for his extended presence, it was probably necessary that I described the layout of the unit. The main apartment consisted of two bedrooms, a bathroom, a living/dining room, a balcony,

and a kitchen. A joining the kitchen was an exterior walkway that faced into the building shaft.

This exterior walkway led to a third bedroom, otherwise unconnected to the rest of the apartment.

It size and orientation relative to the main unit suggested that at once function as a servant or maid's quarters. The room sat at an oblique angle to the kitchen which provided a view into its two windows. I recalled from my initial tour of the apartment twin-sized mattress on the bedroom four. Opposite the mattress was a desk and a leather school chair.

The third room was perfectly livable and functional but extraneous to my own living purposes and to my purpose for being in Mexico. I had ignored it since moving in so I can't say for certain when the man arrived. One week the room was empty the next he was seated at the desk his hand moving from left to right apparently riding.

My reaction upon spying him through the kitchen window was less fear and more akin to fatigue. I was in the middle of cooking breakfast and I had an omelet to attend to and I had to clean the bathroom. I'll deal with him later I thought. When I came home that evening he was still in the room, still seated at the desk and still

riding the only difference in the scene was that the bedroom's overhead light had been turned on.

The third room suffered from poor exposure to natural light.

It's solitary bulb had likely been emitting that dull, whitish glow since the early afternoon. These seemed like reasonable grounds for confronting the uninvited larger, financial grounds

“I mean but I remember that the landlord covered the utilities and despite my close relationship”

with this landlord in particular I was opposed at least ideologically to the existence of landlords in general and did not want to appear allied with her by suggesting that the man at the desk was adding to the electrical bill. I closed the kitchen curtains and cooked my dinner. The following morning I walked into the kitchen and was surprised to see the third bedroom

slight already on and its new inhabitants seated in the same spot. Had he slept at all? Light didn't reach the third room until almost noon and by the early evening the room would begin to darken. One fluorescent bulb running 19 hours per day represented a negligible contribution to the electrical bill which as I had already decided was really not my business.

It was his devotion to his work that had begun to erke me. I couldn't imagine him riding anything so important as to compel him to remain seated at all hours of the day. I described the scene in a message to my landlord the day after her departure.

conversation I could come across as still to the point that people struggled to understand

“me and I reasoned that the landlord may have misinterpreted my initial messages.”

I emphasized that the man had been in the apartment her apartment for a month and showed no signs of leaving her reply a gift of in the ring at 10 running at circles with its hands on its head. I'll get to it as soon as I'm actually at it. She didn't plan to return until February at the earliest.

The only other person aware of the man's presence was my girlfriend from the beginning she had been of little help. After three years of dating these kinds of stories simply didn't interest her. Don't tell me about people trapped in apartments anymore, please. She had said, "When I called to inform her of the man's sudden appearance, I didn't bore her and she didn't bore me exactly but the relationship board both of us."

That was clear. It was something I had come to accept. I would never again be excited about

“love. But I wouldn't be discontent either, except in fleeting conversations and bars”

or in flirtatious cases from across the room at parties. Instead of calling my girlfriend I met a writer for coffee. This writer was 15 years older than me spoke little Spanish and had recently moved to Mexico for reasons that remained unclear. The writer was from New York and had written books about nameless protagonists who banned in their lives and flee to comfortably de-familiarized places.

Their sights of refuge weren't exotic in the traditional sense of the word. They were cities where everyone spoke English and that people from New York recognized at least by name. The idea was that the characters lost their identities upon entering these uncanny realities or arrived at them with aspirations of non-existence meant to comet, I suppose, on a pervasive homogenization and disintegration of identity and hour, the reader's lives.

But the settings of these stories were so clearly removed from the world of economic and political agencies that they became paradoxically comfortable, a familiar to New York literary audiences. And this I often fell asleep reading this writer's books. Nonetheless, given his experience in matters of people willfully disappeared, nameless or otherwise faced, I thought the writer might have suggestions for how to best rid myself

of the man in the third room. I described the man's arrival to the writer who listened patiently

and occasionally interjected to clarify certain sequences of events. After reaching the end of my story, I began silently questioning the fundamental nature of the problem. Could I reasonably argue that the man was doing any harm? His presence unnerved me, that was clear, but part of the reason I was in Mexico was to investigate material conditions and social organizations that might pierce that ignored in their own art. In material terms, I didn't use a third bedroom.

The man had no effect on my daily life. There was only one bathroom in the apartment, for example, that must be where he went to relieve himself, but even so the man left the bathroom immaculate. Any must have only used it, well, I was out of the house or asleep, so it was not to disturb me. The same went for food. If he was eating my food, he replaced whatever he had consumed down to the crumbs at the bottom of the breadbox. In this regard, he took far less than any previous

guest had. A number of friends had visited me since I moved back to Mexico, and I had always

refused their offers of payment or reimbursement saying my house is your house, and he food anything you need don't worry about it. More than once I had even hosted strangers, central and South American

“migrants and route to the United States, had I told these people to stay as long as they needed?”

The New York writer asked if I had tried confession, religious confession I asked. Have you tried sitting the man down and telling him about yourself? He's already sitting. And why would I need to make things about me? And a way you already have the writer reply. The man in the third room could make for an interesting audience. I've been exploring monologues in my work lately. I admitted that I hadn't entered the third room more than a handful of times, and not once since the man's arrival.

It wasn't an option. To enter the room was as implausible as trapping oxygen with my hands. Why? Because the man was in the room, and I wasn't. It seemed obvious. If he had invited me in, that perhaps things would be different, but for the time being he was inside the room, and I was outside. You've only seen the man from a distance, then. The writer asked. Through the kitchen window I replied, the window isn't far from the third room I had at the

side of the writer's furrowed brow, his mouth twisting into a smile. And that instant I had trouble recalling the man's features. I'd seen him only from behind. I knew that his hair was short, and black, and that he wore a green flannel shirt nearly every day. I didn't know it's a man in there. Or anyone at all. Maybe you left the light on the writer said. His smile now undisguised. These were possibilities I had already considered and discarded. I explained.

I invited the writer to come see for himself. It was a 30 minute walk from the cafe to my apartment.

to New York the following month to attend a conference or maybe to speak on a panel. The details

“were unclear because the writer had transitioned so abruptly into the descriptions of his winter”

plans at several minutes. I thought he was describing deeds accomplished by the narrator as novel. We arrived at my apartment. I led the writer into the kitchen and pulled back the curtain to show him the man in a third row for a fleeting instant. I worried that the man wouldn't be there.

I'd never shown him to anyone. If he were gone or if I saw him but the writer didn't,

it would mean I was at last losing purchase on reality. All my life that had been a possibility. And indeed I considered it an inevitability. I'd come close a number of times before returning to Mexico and it was part of the reason I'd move back to lose my mind alone. Away from family and friends, I looked out the kitchen window and into the windows of the third room. Man was seated at the desk as before. There I said to the writer who was out the kitchen door before I could say more.

“Through the kitchen window I watched the writer knock on the door to the third room, enter,”

and close a door behind it. I waited. The writer was standing in a spot that obscured almost my entire view into the room. It was just possible to distinguish the seated man. He hadn't stood to greet the writer or to expel him from the room. It appeared as though his hand was still moving across the desk. If I knew anything about the man after nearly six weeks living together, it was that his work ethic was unwavering. The writer could blabber for hours about

defamiliarized cities and nameless characters. The seated man's hand would continue moving, filling the pages before him at a rate nearly equivalent to the rate of his breath or the beat of his heart was then I witnessed to an exhaustive transcription of the totality of a single life. Each page of record of his thoughts at that exact instant, each paragraph, a digression into the texture of each of those thoughts and each sentence, a description of the shadows cast by the

texture of every very gated vanity and anxiety with the arrival of the writer in the room. The relative homeostasis of his work was likely to be disrupted. Now he would have to account for two bodies or at the very least he would have to account for the influence exerted on his body by an additional foreign body, which is Project Survive, such a cataclysmic event,

night fell and the writer hadn't returned. No sound escaped a third room.

The writer wasn't screaming for help nor was he arguing with the man at the desk. This wasn't a hostage situation. It was a case of two adult men in a room plain and simple, better to let them be I thought. The writer could show himself out when the time came and maybe by then he and the man at the desk would be on such good terms that they would exit my life together. That night I dreamt of the third bedroom. I dreamt that I had followed the writer's advice and entered the room

to tell the man about myself. But the man sat there without responding. His face was simple and familiar. It was the face of any person and a crowd and anonymous and infants. He blinked and breathed, turn away from me and continued writing. I looked over his shoulder to read the text.

Serptitiously at first and then brazenly, after he made no effort to hide it. The papers were

covered in lipo nonsense, words continuously reorganized and adherence to the dream's ficcologic. Next I tried, narrowed, devising a bit. I hung a rope from the piping and told the man how inevitable

“this moment was. This rope reminds you of your uncle. I said carefully. Remember, the one who used to”

hide under the bed and scare you as a joke and who later hung himself in the shed? The man at the desk continued writing. All ropes remind you of that uncle I shouted and now that you have tied this rope, this is the closest you will come to imitating your uncle's act. It continued writing like a rope on a circuit. The doorbell cut my dream short. The phone was also ringing. I looked at it's screen and saw several missed calls from my girlfriend and my concern for the man in the

third room I have forgotten that her boss had granted her a few days vacation. I ran downstairs a letter in. On the walk-up I explained the latest developments with the man. Now men in the room. I pulled back the curtain in the kitchen and pointed to the writer from New York. He was standing and exactly the same position as night before. Through the gap between his bit section and arm I spy the man at the desk writing away. One man I explained to her was manageable but the

addition of the writer complicated my responsibilities to the third room. I wasn't sure what he would need materially. For example, should I bring him meals and toilet paper? The man at the desk had showed himself to be self-sufficient. He attended to his bodily functions without fuss. The writer by contrast was only a writer, a New York writer at that. Meaning he was accustomed to a

how much grit I had to offer. Over the last decade I had come to accept the conspicuous luxury

“of my labor sitting at home all day reading, annotating, doing work not much different than that”

of the man in the third room. In that way I was similar to him. I'll be at far less productive.

I was a Mexican that's true and on the tanner side which lends itself to interpretations of impoverished grit. Maybe that would suffice. When will you stop worrying about this? My girlfriend said turning from the window and continuing down the hall to my bedroom. I followed her into the room and apologized. She sat on the bed and undressed. I lifted my shirt over my head and unbuttoned my pants. She watched me shrugged and left the room wrapped in towel. It was her ritual to take long showers

after the three-hour bus ride into the city. Today she was in a rush to meet France for lunch. You've been so busy with research lately I didn't think you'd want to come she said.

It's true she hadn't arrived at the most opportune moment. The men in the third bedroom aside,

“the Mexican government was funding my work. The selection committee had called the research”

very promising and as members expected a stellar mid-year report. But I was having trouble finding the information I needed. I worried about the months to come. I worried they would make me leave. Mexico again. My girlfriend dressed and rushed downstairs. From the balcony I watched her across the street and hail a cab. She waved up to me before getting in. I returned to the kitchen to watch the man in the third room. I sent another message to my landlord. In it I explained that my girlfriend was

visiting and that it would infinitely improve her state if we could resolve the issue of the man in

the third room. Unless in the minute the landlord replied with a gift of two hard spinning spirals

around one another. I drafted a long response accusing her of breaking the terms of the least and then deleted it. The apartment was too good to lose. It was fully furnished and in enviable location near major transit lines far but not too far from the hip areas populated by tourists and rich Mexicans and I paid half of what anyone in the neighborhood paid. I also couldn't deny that there were pleasant memories between us and landlord and me. The German vacuum cleaner. The King's eyes bed,

both gifts from her would be childess Japan it's so much comfort on a whim I told myself. In the evening I left to join my girlfriend and her friends for dinner. On the bus ride to the restaurant I read a short essay on my phone written by the writer who now inhabited the third room. The essay published that very week discussed the writer's relationship to Mexico and the country's influence on his upcoming novel. Prior to his arrival in Mexico the work had been a disordered

mess of shapeless characters and ideas. Now it had direction. He all but repudiated his previous four novels as amateur's drivel. The essay's publication had been timed to the release of his book which was receiving advanced praise. The only voice missing was his. No one had heard from the writer for a couple of days. Although this wasn't yet caused for alarm he had a reputation for entering into periods of munkish solitude after finishing his novels. We returned from dinner just past midnight.

I shower to then spend some time spying on the third room through the window in the kitchen. Everything appeared as before. The man seeded at the desk and the writer standing above him. Perhaps the writer and the seated man had become each other's most trustworthy collaborators and confidence. Maybe they need each other now. For the first time since the man's arrival I felt happy for him. Had this been what he'd sought all along? I didn't believe that my girlfriend or anyone I knew

would ever offer me that kind of companionship. She praised and supported me but I was certain that she couldn't be counted on to fight to her last breath to preserve my work if I were to disappear suddenly and forever from the earth. Before falling asleep by Astrea if I should alert anyone to the writers' whereabouts. My girlfriend said there was no point drawing so much attention to myself. We were lying in bed with lights off. I wasn't sure what she met by that statement.

She rolled her aside with her back to me. I touched the nape of her neck and waited.

“Remember when we used to tell secrets before bed I asked. We were young and then she replied.”

The next morning she was gone. I've written here exactly what I told those who came looking. Her bags and clothing were exactly where she'd left them. They were still a small depression in the pillow where she'd rested her head and scattered around that depression like trampled foliage where little tangles of her hair. I went straight to the window in the kitchen. The man at the desk was no longer visible. I saw her, my girlfriend, standing next to the writer. Her shoulders rounded

forward and a braid unraveled down the line of her neck. The rest of her body was hidden from sight.

In the days that followed I asked myself, what could have compelled her to enter the third room?

“My initial guess was uncreative, reductive and debased. An inventory of her clothing left in the”

bedroom left me to conclude that she had entered the third room with what little she'd warned to bed, a thong and a loose tank top. The three hour bus rides between cities were becoming exhausting and for several months we had been in an open relationship. I suspected she had waited for me to fall asleep and then crept into the third room to seek the affections of the two men. Her parrot disinterest arouse all along. "Fine, you can have her!" I shouted into the building shaft.

I abandoned my plan to race into the room to savor, a plan that I must admit was only a delusion of bravery. That very day I fell back into old habits. I didn't leave my apartment for a week. Each morning I undertook a head-to-toe inventory of my body's asymmetries, along the right thigh had arisen two new in-grown hairs,

“and the left shoulder a small diploma. I prodded the lepoman to the skin bruised.”

Twice a day I looked out the window to check on the third room. Initially I left small plates of food

in the exterior walkway outside the kitchen door. A week had passed and it appeared that my girlfriend was losing weight. Maybe that wasn't the case. Maybe I wanted reason to believe that she was suffering that I could end that suffering. Given the security situation in the country, her disappearance soon caused a minor media sensation. Another young woman missing after decades of so many others lost. One day her phone rang nonstop as did mine. The calls were so insistent

that the phone batteries eventually drained. The writer's book meanwhile was being discussed as a major contenter for several literary awards. I asked myself who would arrive first, my girlfriend's parents, but the police. As it happened they arrived together. From the doorbell rang I was lying in bed prodding a small mole on my scalp. My girlfriend's mother was in tears. She and my girlfriend's father were just off a 12 hour flight. I was determined to remain civil. I answered everyone's questions

and gesture toward the third room. One police officer stayed with me while two others escorted the parents into the room. When he saw that they weren't coming back, he unholesched his gun and

“charged out the kitchen door. I remember thinking he looked like a hero in an action movie.”

Since that day, the number of people in the third room has increased. Far past a point permissible by the fiscal bounds of the space. First more police arrived and eventually government officials and members of the military. This attracted protesters and counter-protesters. Whose disappearances hastened that their arrival of volunteer organizations devoted to searching for Mexico's missing. The ranks of the vanished grew, but I couldn't stop counting my lapomas.

Within a month, the journalist arrived to interview the writer. I'm not sure how they found out he was here. Later a friend of his came to present him a metal awarded for his novel. Then his ex-wife showed up with his twin sons, followed by string of old lovers. Despite increasing disruptions to civil services as more people in the country disappear, the committee funding my work still expects a progress reported March. It is now January. Every so often I return to

the kitchen window and gaze out at the third room. I assume the light is still on and the man continues writing, although within a week of the police's arrival the room had become so full that the windows went completely dark. This hasn't brought me the relief I would have expected.

The man has disappeared from sight, but I can never be certain of his definitive departure.

His writing task has become gargantuan, perhaps impossible. For the time being I have hold up in this the apartment's secretary to focus on drafting my report for the committee. I've kept the landlord abreast of the situation. Earlier today I informed her that a cube and ragged tone star had entered the third room to shoot a music video. She replied with a gift of a man in purple pants jiorating beneath a disco ball. Then my rant payment cleared

and she sent another video of Rosie joyous people linked in a Congolite. Ivan Hernandez performed third room by Julian Robless. I'm Meg Wallitzer. It's easy to credit Franz Kafka for the whole genre of delusional fiction, but it may be more accurate to acknowledge that modern life has produced such a pattern of shifting realities that it would be surprising if it was not reflected in contemporary fiction.

What makes third room so compelling is the way the narrator leads us step by step down the rabbit hole of obsession. I am a fan of the shifting reality genre,

reality, really unusual. And it creates a Mary Poppins bag type of elasticity when it comes to

“thinking about the room too. We start to consider the difference between observation and experience.”

And we even think about the writer's task, which is after all to create rooms and then to look at them and live in them, inviting the reader to do the same. While we generally define our

best American programs only by their relationship to the contents of each year's volume,

the two stories on this program do have some elements in common, and with Celeste Ing's

“criteria for finding them exceptional and worthy of a place in the anthology. In each,”

a familiar aspect of everyday life, longstanding family relationships in an early departure,

and professional and domestic lives in third room is dramatically altered,

abruptly in the case of an early departure, slowly and corrosively in third room. So things that were certain in the lives of the characters in each of these worlds

“become uncertain. Happily, one thing we can be relatively certain of is that there will be a”

new volume of the best American short stories in 2026. And we look forward to meeting those writers and their worlds. I'm Meg Walitzer, thanks for joining me for selected shorts. Selected shorts is produced by Jennifer Brennan and Sarah Montague. Our team includes Matthew Love, Drew Richardson, Mary Shimkin, Vivienne Woodward, and Magdalene Roblesky. The readings are recorded by Miles B. Smith. Our programs presented at the Getty Center in Los Angeles are recorded

by Phil Richards. Our mix engineer for this episode was Joe Plord. Our theme music is David Petersen's "That's the Deal," performed by the Dear Door of Peterson Group. Selected shorts is supported by the Dungeon and Foundation. This program is also made possible with public funds from the New York State Council on the Arts, with the support of Governor Kathy Hockel and the New York State Legislature. Selected shorts is produced and distributed by Symphony Space.

Hey, if you've ever wanted to do selected shorts in your own home, I have a suggestion. I have a novel coming out for kids, and since kids do like to be read too, maybe you could read aloud to them from this book. I co-wrote it with my son Charlie Panic, and it's one of those scavenger hunt books with a lot of really cool clues in it. Great for ages 7 to 11. That's found sound, read it aloud, let your kid read it, let your

grand kid read it, let adults read it, whatever.