A software engineer in Illinois, who called her parents weeping as Hillary Clinton lost the 2016 election. A college student in New Hampshire who wanted to hear from the other side of the political aisle. A smiling, hatted Vermin Supreme, who didn’t believe despair was the answer.
A winding, narrow road in snowy Pennsylvania, with a curious inn alongside it. A psychiatric hospital in the sticky New York City Summer of 1965. A small family in Poland or Russia, scrambling to finish cooked oil-flecked, gristly angel meat before midnight.
First it was J.K. Rowling. Then it was Philip Pullman. Now MarQuel Woods is hoping to see his own name on a book jacket—as soon as the chapters get the jumpstart they need.