“Do you know what makes a good puppet master, Nate?” What the fuck kind of question was that? Terry ran his free hand over his cropped sandy-colored hair, took another long pull on his cigarette, the lit end glowing. Then he blew the smoke from the corner of his mouth, his eyes unyielding, yet thoughtful. “No one ever knows you’re pulling the strings. They’re made of invisible fibers that become an extension of you. One small flit of your fingers, everything changes and no one is ever the wiser that it was you.”
