A novel is a tricky thing to map.

“I would not know what to say to you, except this: there was never a map that go…”

“I was only twelve, but through the slow, inevitable burn of a thousand sunrises…”

“The sun was crouched on its haunches over the Pioneers. The mountains were both…”

“Did the true, umbilical love that bound people together for the length of their…”