by David Joy
Dwayne Brewer wanted desperately to go down that hillside and tell them the good news. He wanted them to hold out their hands and he’d gift them the grace of God. There was mercy in the passing of strangers, in what watched from hillsides like ghosts, in the savage running barefoot through the soil. But the hearts of men were hardened things, their eyes not meant for seeing. So few were ready to live forever.
Not yet, sweet Lord, not yet.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
To Ezra for letting me dig holes, build fence, chase chickens, and run from rams with Irish names. To his dog, Kephart, for riding in my pickup and smiling at the madness. To Leigh Ann Henion for hanging paper targets. To Ashley for letting me hole up in the farmhouse while the story took hold and loving me while I was in a world outside our own. To our dog, Charlie, for showing me squirrels and rabbits and field grass and groundhog holes and sunsets and moonlight and everything else that makes dogs like us lives worth living. To the man at Quail Ridge Books who asked about grace, and Ray McManus, the red-dirt Jesus. And, most important, to my agent, Julia Kenny, my editor, Sara Minnich, and the entire team at Putnam, without whom my work would remain in a drawer.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
David Joy is the author of The Weight of This World and Where All Light Tends to Go, an Edgar finalist for Best First Novel. His stories and creative nonfiction have appeared in a number of publications, and he is the author of the memoir Growing Gills: A Fly Fisherman's Journey. Joy lives in Sylva, North Carolina.
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