from the back of the book :

If there’s a line between the real and the dig­i­tal, between meat and the game, between past and present, then hold this book close to your mouth and whis­per it into the pages. Please. Maybe the kid in there’ll hear you. His name is Nolan Dugatti. He’s lost, see, run­ning down hall after hall, some­thing both ancient and not-yet born gal­lop­ing up behind him on a hun­dred legs, each indi­vid­ual foot­fall a sound he knows, a way of shuf­fling that he’s always known. His father? Except it can’t be. Unless of course this is another novel from Stephen Gra­ham Jones. Not quite hor­ror, not quite sci­ence fic­tion, but like his ?ve or six other books, a story trem­bling at some pupal stage between meat and the game, where words will some­times stop their crawl across the page and crane their neck around at the sky, nod about what they see there-you– then unfold their wings, drift up into another world altogether.

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Order it at SPD or on Ama­zon or Powell’s.