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224 pages, Paperback
First published August 18, 2020
How's that jumper shot of yours? Still silky? I'm coaching the Cascades. Up in Niagara Falls? Scrappy unit. Couple of intriguing kids.
You were born into dread, my son. Dan said this one night in the witching hour, alone in Charlie's nursery, his voice clear over the monitor in our bedroom. He was right: to have a baby is to be introduced to a depthless well of worry. A dread you could never have guessed at, not in a thousand years.
Many things can be built into one moment. Later, you might have lots of time to tease apart the strands of instinct and causation in search of catharsis or clarity, and if you do, you will find that entwined in those strands are the people and places and events that brought you to that point, guiding you to that heartbeat where everything coming before acted on everything yet to come. Human lives can be ruthlessly reduced to such moments, I think. And once they pass, we have to exist with what we've earned inside them.
You can never guess the change your life might take until that change comes. That's what Charlie says – well, Charlie says until that change darkens your door, which is classic Charlie-talk but anyway, that's what he says and I believe him.
It had begun as a morbid joke – sometimes those were the ones that got you through. “Child apprehension with officer assist,” a.k.a.: the Friday Night Goon Squad. You hatch'em, we snatch'em.
There's an instant in any procedure when you understand that you hold everything in your hand. The God Moment. Each surgeon feels it differently. For me, this was a moment of awesome, near-paralyzing love. Love for the child beneath my blade: for its life and its capacity to do great things – or if not great, then merely valuable. And it was a moment of respect for their bodies, which I must invade, and for their futures, which I am dutybound to honour.
Fire will grunt and growl and come at you with the soft slithering of a snake. It'll howl around blind corners like a pack of wolves, and gibber up from flame-eaten floorboards and reverberate in a million other strange ways besides. Sometimes it sounds like buzzard talons clawing across pebbled glass. Other times, it'll come for you silent as a ghost: a soft whisper of smoke curling back under a doorway, beckoning you to open it. That's when it's most dangerous – when it's hiding its true face.