In the first quiet billows of an oncoming storm, his uncle wraps an arm over his shoulder and shivers in the wind, hair that grayed too early blustered out of its semblance, his eyes haunted by a ghost Pharm fears he will never stop chasing. How many people will he see pieces of Intouch in, his nephew wonders? How much more sea glass will he pull out of the sand to keep as if all the mismatched specks of color can be made into one whole?
At twenty, the narrator of the novel he wrote under a different name was broken, burdened, universal.
At fifty, Korn is cold, quiet, and tired.
There’s a house Pharm loves on the beach, a harbor, a sanctuary, that suddenly feels emptier than it ever has.
This is a breathtakingly beautiful “what if no one died” that left me speechless.