
THE WITCH IS DEAD by Katherine Gleason
Jamey sprawls across the sofa. I place the box of Ding Dongs on the coffee table, and she laughs. “You remember,” I say. “Of course,” she says. “Mom loved those.” “And pretended she didn’t. We need coffee.” I slip into my galley kitchen and mix a few grams of a fruity Ethiopian with the usual beans. The blueberry overtones will blunt the waxiness of the chocolate. Cups in one hand, French press in the other, I trip over the cat, fall to one knee and, fists closed tight, stop myself with elbows planted on the back of the couch. Jamey…