Best New Fiction

Yesterday evening, after finishing Jenny Hoyston's (of Erase Errata) new zine and eating my dinner, I discovered that I had misplaced my copy of The Best New Fiction of 2007 (I actually don't think that this is the real title). I couldn't get into most of the stories in the book (cancer seemed to be the dominant theme). But yesterday, while eating my lunch outside in the sun, I started in on a story about a young Vietnamese refugee who fled to San Francisco in the 1970s. The story was promising. But I never managed to finish it. Even now, I have no idea if I left it in the park, or if it is hiding somewhere under a mess in my bedroom.