Of the many merits of this book, the ones I most appreciated were the deeply real characters (and here I mean every single one, seriously, every single one), the deeply real setting (oh the memories that flooded my brain along with the intense longing for the soft warm breezes and lightning storms of my childhood that we so rarely get on the summer dry west coast), and of course the story in all of its glory. And of course the writing itself. Of course. Oh, wait! And being categorized as Southern Gothic without going full slimy underbelly.

If pressed I’d describe this as Cormac McCarthy grit smoothed by Kent Haruf downhominess, elevated by William Gay lyricism and an enormous dose of T. R. Pearson humanity (minus the humor).

My only caveats were the occasional strings of repeated phrases, powerful for the first few but carried one or two repetitions too far, and, however fabulously it works to advance the storyline, too much coincidence for me to immerse as fully as I wanted.

But wow how I look forward to reading more of this author.