Jack Reacher caught the last of the summer sun in a small town on the coast of Maine, and then, like the birds in the sky above him, he began his long migration south.
My mom has three freckles, light brown and almost perfectly square, two on her right cheek and one on her nose.
The moment I decided to leave him, the moment I thought, enough, we were thirty-five thousand feet above the ocean, hurtling forward but giving the illusion of stillness and tranquility.
The road curves and twists unexpectedly as it leads higher and deeper into the Catskill Mountains, as if the further you get from civilization, the more uncertain the path.
From the moment I accepted the invitation, I was nervous about returning to Germany.
October 1955. If Albert Black sings to himself he can almost see himself back home in Belfast, the place where he came from.
The crackle of gunshots bounced between the mountainsides, the percussion fading with each return of echo.
Look, I didn’t want to be a half-blood. If you’re reading this because you think you might be one, my advice is: close this book right now.
