Cielle curled her legs beneath herself on the couch. “Is it scary?”
“Being sick?”
She nodded. Her fists rose to her chin, elbows on her knees. She might have been six or ten. “What’s it like?”
He could feel Janie, too, focused on him. The stillness was electric.
“It teaches you that no part of you is sacred,” he said. “And that other people are.”
Dear heavens, what Gregg Hurwitz puts me through with his novels.
Listen to the premise of The Survivor:
Nate Overbay has nothing left to live for. He lost his family, thanks to PTSD. Now he has ALS (Lou Gehrig’s Disease). And so he climbs out on a ledge on the 11th story of a bank building, to get it over with before the real suffering starts.
But instead of killing himself, he stops a bloody bank robbery, killing four out of five of the bank robbers. The lone survivor, before fleeing, tells him, “He will make you pay, in ways you can’t imagine.”
Soon, in spite of a steadily failing body, Nate is fighting desperately for the lives of his wife and daughter. Along the way he finds redemption he’d never thought possible.
Completely implausible. I didn’t believe the premise for a second. This book is so over the top it would never work if it weren’t being told by a consummate storyteller who knows how to flip all our switches. You will care – deeply – about this man and his family, people who come alive in stirring ways. You’ll even care about the villain, to an extent. The Survivor is, simply, a moving, irresistible read.
Cautions for language, violence, and plain intensity.
Almost all fiction is implausible. I believe that what matters, with fiction and non-fiction, is not whether the thing is believable but whether the reader wants to believe it, or can be made to want to.
There are generally limits to plausibility. The limits in a book are closer in than in movies, because the author doesn’t have the moviegoer’s “lying eyes” to rely on. That’s what makes Hurwitz remarkable. He sells me stuff I never thought I’d buy, because he makes me care.