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518 pages, Hardcover
First published August 12, 2014
He turned towards the eastern mountains, angled the drum to catch the rising sun, and began a memorial song. But the elk skin was too soft now, too damp. The beats slid off, and his voice was drowned in the rushing water. In the distance he could see the dog laid out on higher ground.
And in that moment, in that moment, he thought about retreating once again.
But the path back was only memory now, all safety choked off as the sea ringed the Apostles in ink and foam.
He began the song anew, picking up the beat and raising the pitch, so that his voice carried above the slicing surf. The sun was in full force now, the sky blue and polished. It was going to be a good day.
"The Apostles is good exercise at low tide, if ye have no aversion to climbing about on carcasses and bones. But watch your back. The sea's a shifty slut. She'll tide in behind and suck ye up in a salty slurp."
"I'm not sure how long I'll stay."
"There's wisdom enough in that for shirts and pants to fit us all."
Sonny holds the drum to his nose and discovers that it smells like bacon. Not exactly like bacon, but something tasty that has smoke and fat in it. He can't wait to show Dad the drum. When Sonny shows Dad the drum, Dad will surely take him in his arms and say, Behold my beloved son, in whom I am well pleased.
World hunger can't make the back page of TV Guide, but an almost bare breast can destroy the morality of a nation. Dorian shook his head. No wonder democracy and Christianity had been such failures.