It’s the bleach by Ana Diaz

It’s the bleach. It’s the bleach, all right. Also, the orange awning, the unassuming plywood frame, topped with a little bell, behind which everything becomes surreal. Like being dead. It’s the lot: the overdone sanitation at the check-in plus Father’s businesslike ‘First-timer here’ The receptionist in bloomers and suspenders when it’s nowhere near the 20s....