Excerpt from Vigil by George Saunders, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

Excerpt
Vigil

What a lovely home I found myself plummeting toward, acquiring, as I fell, arms, hands, legs, feet, all of which, as usual, became more substantial with each passing second.

Below: a fountain.

At the center of the fountain: a gold-¬plated statue.

Of a dog. (Someone must have really loved that dog.)

In the mouth of the golden dog: a golden duck. The duck's beak was hanging open in death and a pocked area in its flank seemed meant to represent the entry-¬field of the shot-¬cluster.

I observed all of this as I plummeted past and then my head and torso pierced the asphalt crust of a semicircular drive and lodged in the dirt below.

My rear was in the air, my fresh new legs bicycling energetically. I found myself alternately clothed and unclothed. That is to say: one instant naked and the next clothed. Or to be more precise: partly clothed. (Over time, that is, the elements of my outfit grew more reliably visible.)

My beige skirt soon became a near constant.

Meanwhile, here was a burrowing worm to consider and a brown bottle-¬shard and the rich smell of the loam now completely encasing my (inverted) upper half.

Once in Tennessee, having landed in the more conventional upright posture, I spent six hours in a paddock, my head protruding above the surface of the earth, being trotted through again and again by three black horses and one roan, who never, during those hours, ceased being panicked by my presence.

And yet I had a fine success on that occasion.

My charge being greatly comforted.

Tonight, blessedly, the thaw proceeded quickly.

And I found myself able, by sheer force of will, to bolt up out of the ground gymnastically and stand upright, both fully and consistently clothed.

Beige skirt, pale pink blouse, black pumps.

The golden dog shone in the glare of an ornate carriage lamp.

I made for the front door and, not yet walking competently, collapsed to the earth like a just-unstrung puppet, then leapt to my feet and moved on relentlessly to my work.

The door (immense, heavy, dead-¬bolted) presented no meaningful impediment. Passing through, I emerged into a magnificent entryway, then ascended a spacious stairwell lined with image after image of my charge:

Leaning confidently against a podium, speaking to a tremendous crowd.

Squatting with a kaffiyeh-¬wearing fellow before the Great Pyramid of Giza.

Knee-¬deep in the shallows of some high mountain lake, beside a young woman I took to be his daughter.

Driving (pretending to drive) a piece of heavy machinery, wearing a hard hat and a three-¬piece suit.

Posing before an oil rig.

And another.

And another.

Standing with his wife on the Great Wall of China, both beaming as if this represented a singular moment in their union.

Arm in arm with her in what looked to be the Rose Garden of the White House.

With her again, before what I understood to be a second home, in Colorado.

And a third, in Hawaii.

A fourth, in Key West.

Often, on his face, the same look: more grimace than smile, albeit shot through with a measure of forced goodwill.

Reaching the second floor, I moved along a hallway hung with numerous paintings in gilt frames, each marked by a plaque mentioning some experience our charge and his wife associated with its acquisition:

"Lovely cliffside dinner, Positano."

"Catacomb tour, Paris, Mr. Pavarotti sang beautifully for us after dinner."

"Guest of Senator Jepps and Maria in their fabulous desert home."

At the end of the hall hung a double door of sturdy oak.

A familiar tan purse now appearing over my shoulder, I patted it (once, twice) as I would in the bygone days when about to embark on a challenging task, then passed through, knowing that my charge must be found on the other side.

Excerpted from Vigil by George Saunders. Copyright © 2026 by George Saunders. Excerpted by permission of Random House. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.