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414 pages, Paperback
Published February 20, 2023
The North doesn’t play favourites.
Welcome back to the North.
When the trapper was young he was told a story of a mythical arrow shot from a mythical bow. For that arrow to reach its target, it had to cross half the distance. Then it had to halve that distance again. Then again, and so on. Of course that particular arrow never reaches its target because it never crosses all those infinite halves. How could it? That still made some sense to him. Turns out this arrow is not that arrow. A part of him was surprised.
Love was in the air and couples danced within it. Her thin hand in his. And from that clasp would come other life. Unbeknownst to them, where their palms met, roots sprouted. Small vines already curling out between their fingers.
• His eyes on the curled grey ashes in the stove, like the fire had eaten the bones but left the feathers.
• The legend of the trapper grew — people like to talk and they poured those truths some drinks.
• He had always been a slow reader and now he was a slower reader and he considered that progress.
And he was nine-tenths pain, and one-tenth pain, and some impossible fraction of hysterical love, ‘cause for the smallest wild part of him, some piece at once defiant to and accepting of the misery and cruelty of life, and any circumstance or force that would impose on him great suffering which might break his will and then break the man — this felt raw and that felt good. See his resolve in a tiny smile.
