First Frost (Walt Longmire, #20)

by Craig Johnson

There’s no part of the world that changes more constantly than a coastline; the perpetual battle, negotiation, or intercourse between land and sea.

“What is it?” “Chicken.” I stared at my fork. “It doesn’t taste like chicken.” “Sure it does.” “Where did you get a chicken out here?” Fujita leaned forward, forking in more of the rice and strange meat. “It’s like a roadrunner.” “So, it’s roadrunner?” “Sure.” I stared at the very pale meat. “It doesn’t look like any kind of bird.” He ate another bite and chewed. “Then it’s pork.”

we the living have no responsibilities to the dead, our accountabilities to them have passed and they no longer have any more use for us than we have for them—our duties are to the living, and that should occupy us enough.”

“We owe the dead nothing, young man, because they know better than we do the only thing of any importance—that it is better to live.”