A fine story in current New Yorker that feels like an excerpt from a memoir or "auto-fiction"

The New Yorker is on a bit of a run, with another excellent story in the current issue, this one, Things We Worried About When I Was Ten, by David Rabe (best known as a playwright, but a multiple-threat writer); the story, as you can surmise from the title, has the feeling of a memoir or essay about the narrator's childhood, and of course we suspect that the narrator is closely aligned w/ Rabe (though I know nothing about the facts of his life) - in other words, this feels close of the commanding style of the moment, auto-fiction (of which I'm an advocate, btw - write what you know, to the extreme, and what nobody else knows as well as you, but that w/ which all or many can identify with or learn from). The piece stands well as a story, but it could likely be a part of a longer manuscript, a novel or memoir. In a short space, Rabe gives a detailed and sometimes harrowing depiction of the working-class neighborhood in which the narrator was raised: fathers who work quick w/ the back of the hand, mothers overworked and emotionally distant, the constant bullying and threats and the fear of older and bigger boys - these all familiar notes - but the story becomes increasingly tense as Rabe introduces new "things we worried about": initial sexual longings, humiliations, broken families and the unexplained disappearances of those who moved in hard times, and finally a gruesome injury that traumatizes an already vulnerable child.