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“two things will stop them—Christmas and tragedy. He dismounts his albino steed, the horse’s pinked nostrils flaring, dirty mane matted with ice. The single-rig saddle is snow-crusted as well, its leather and cloth components—the mochila and shabrack—frozen stiff. He rubs George’s neck, speaking in soft, low tones he knows will calm the animal, telling him he did a good day’s work and that a warm stable awaits with feed and fresh water. The mule skinner opens his wallet, collects the pint of bust-head he bought at a bodega in Silverton, and swallows the remaining mouthful, whiskey”
― Blake Crouch, Abandon

“before getting shot, he would never nail both of the armed men from thirty yards away. He could also duck into the water and swim downstream, but he didn’t think he could hold his breath long enough to get out of range. That was assuming the rapids ahead were even deep enough to conceal him. “What do you want?” DeVontay said, stalling for time.”
― Scott Nicholson, Milepost 291

“colors and the picket-fenced lawns and the shoppes we spell the olde English way and the sweet smell of the river running through. Parking spaces are plentiful in the off-season. They choose a spot in front of the coffeehouse, climb out with their smiles intact, squinting against the high-altitude sun—a handsome couple just shy of forty, their fashionably-”
― Blake Crouch, Perfect Little Town

“Giants with the bases loaded. The Mets were up by three. The pitcher launched the ball toward home plate. It sliced through the air at ninety-two miles an hour and connected dead-on with Barry Bonds’s bat. Crack! The ball soared over the field and dropped into a fan’s leather glove, two rows behind the wall in the bleacher section. Home run! James and Thomas leaped from their seats. They whooped and hollered, smacking each other’s palms in high tens. “Game over!” Thomas clapped his hands. “Time to pay up.”
― Kerry Lonsdale, Everything We Keep