Depth of Winter (Walt Longmire, #14)

by Craig Johnson

You find that kernel of madness at an early age, and if you’re lucky you start building up a callus around it, a tough layer of humanity that holds it at bay, because it’s just too dangerous to allow to escape. Your family can’t ever see it, your friends can’t ever see it, no one must ever see it—but it’s there, waiting to burn the protective covering away that has taken a lifetime to build and burst open like a volcanic canker of maniacal emotion.

There is a lie in all fiction, a fabrication that says that when the critical moment of your life arrives you will be rested, clean, composed, and prepared, but you won’t be. I guarantee it. You will be exhausted, scattered, dirty, and wounded. But with this comes one miraculous strength. You. Won’t. Care.