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312 pages, Paperback
First published May 3, 2016

Driver was like an avuncular yakuza with bad manners. But for some reason I liked him from the moment we were introduced in the airport parking lot. He spoke no English. Or he was fluent and faking it. But what would be the point?
He was either in his late sixties or early forties. I honestly cannot remember which. I do, however, remember being really surprised by how old or how young he looked when Older Handler told me his age. His visage had a sort of timeless oldness to it. Like alcoholics who live where there's nothing but sun.
He had a gold tooth or two, spiky hair, and a generally gruff exterior. He was slight and not particularly tall, but he had the air of somebody who could and would viciously tear any enemy apart, regardless of whether or not it was deserved. I always felt bad for having these feelings about him, because he was probably a decent man. I was judging a book by its cover, a man by his looks.
Except he did violently stomp to death an innocent bug that I had painstakingly rescued from our car just mere seconds ago...while he watched.