Second paragraph of third section:

Hunger snaked him through the maze. He clambered over the tailgate and dropped to the ground. A fire snapped somewhere invisibly, bronzing the side of a neighboring truck, packed likewise with a teetering mass of household goods. Down the flickering alleyway between them—Tom could have stretched out his arms and lay his hands flat against either vehicle—he glimpsed a temporary encampment: two or three wagons and half again as many beat-up trucks and cars, parked nose in among a scattered grove of towering cottonwood and oak. In the rough circle between, a handful of children chased each other in some game impervious to adult logic, their clamor flitting in the dark. Their fathers here and there hunkered in circles, lean and grim, peering out from under their hats as they drew sticks through the dust or smoked hand-rolled cigarettes.chased each other in some game impervious to adult logic, their clamor flitting in the dark. Their fathers here and there hunkered in circles, lean and grim, peering out from under their hats as they drew sticks through the dust or smoked hand-rolled cigarettes.

I am not sure why I got this back in 2017, but I am sure that it’s a shame I left it so long until reading it; a very short novella about a quest for angels during the Dustbowl, a sort of John Steinbeck meets Ray Bradbury, as one reviewer put it. I don’t think I have read much else by this writer but perhaps I need to correct that. You can get it here.

This was the shortest unread book that I had acquired in 2017. Next on that pile is Keats and Chapman Wryed Again, by Steven A. Jent.