{"product_id":"pines-isbn-9780593598320","title":"Pines","description":"\u003cb\u003eThe first book of the smash-hit Wayward Pines trilogy, from the \u003ci\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/i\u003ebestselling author of \u003ci\u003eDark Matter, Recursion, \u003c\/i\u003eand \u003ci\u003eUpgrade\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eOne way in. No way out.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSecret Service agent Ethan Burke arrives in Wayward Pines, Idaho, with a mission: locate two federal agents who went missing in the bucolic town one month earlier. But within minutes of his arrival, Ethan is involved in a violent accident. He comes to in a hospital, with no ID, no cell phone, and no briefcase.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs the days pass, Ethan’s investigation turns up more questions than answers: Why can’t he get any phone calls through to his wife and son in the outside world? Why doesn’t anyone believe he is who he says he is? And what is the purpose of the electrified fences surrounding the town? Are they meant to keep the residents in? Or something else out?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEach step closer to the truth takes Ethan farther from the world he knew, from the man he was, until he must face a horrifying fact—he may never get out of Wayward Pines alive.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe nail-bitingly suspenseful opening installment in Blake Crouch’s blockbuster Wayward Pines trilogy, \u003ci\u003ePines\u003c\/i\u003e is at once a brilliant mystery tale and the first step into a genre-bending saga of suspense, science fiction, and horror.\u003cb\u003eBlake Crouch\u003c\/b\u003e is a bestselling novelist and screenwriter. His novels include \u003ci\u003eUpgrade, Recursion\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eDark Matter\u003c\/i\u003e, and the Wayward Pines trilogy, which was adapted into a television series for FOX. Crouch also co-created the TNT show\u003ci\u003e Good Behavior\u003c\/i\u003e, based on his Letty Dobesh novellas. He lives in Colorado.\u003cb\u003eCHAPTER 1\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe came to lying on his back with sunlight pouring down into his face and the murmur of running water close by. There was a brilliant ache in his optic nerve, and a steady, painless throbbing at the base of his skull—the distant thunder of an approaching migraine. He rolled onto his side and pushed up into a sitting position, tucking his head between his knees. Sensed the instability of the world long before he opened his eyes, like its axis had been cut loose to teeter. His first deep breath felt like someone driving a steel wedge between the ribs high on his left side, but he groaned through the pain and forced his eyes to open. His left eye must have been badly swollen, because it seemed like he was staring through a slit.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe greenest grass he’d ever seen—a forest of long, soft blades—ran down to the bank. The water was clear and swift as it flowed between the boulders that jutted out of the channel. Across the river, a cliff swept up for a thousand feet. Pines grew in clusters along the ledges, and the air was filled with the smell of them and the sweetness of the moving water.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe was dressed in black pants and a black jacket with an oxford shirt underneath, the white cotton speckled with blood. A black tie hung by the flimsiest knot from his collar.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOn his first attempt to get up, his knees buckled and he sat down hard enough to send a vibration of searing pain through his rib cage. His second try succeeded, and he found himself wobbly but standing, the ground a pitching deck beneath his feet. He turned slowly, his feet shuffling and spread wide for balance.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWith the river behind him, he stood at the edge of an open field. On the far side, the metal surfaces of swing sets and sliding boards glimmered under an intense, midday sun.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNot another soul around.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBeyond the park, he glimpsed Victorian houses, and farther on, the buildings of a main street. The town was at most a mile across, and it sat in the middle of an amphitheater of stone, enclosed by cliff walls rising several thousand feet on every side and composed of red-banded rock. In the highest, shadowed mountain nooks, pockets of snow lingered, but down here in the valley, it was warm, the sky above a deep and cloudless cobalt.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe man checked the pockets of his slacks, and then of his single-breasted coat.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNo wallet. No money clip. No ID. No keys. No phone.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJust a small Swiss Army knife in one of the inner pockets.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e***\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBy the time he’d reached the other side of the park, he was more alert and more confused, and the pulsing in his cervical spine wasn’t painless any longer.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe knew six things:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe name of the current president.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhat his mother’s face looked like, though he couldn’t recall her name or even the sound of her voice.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat he could play the piano. And fly a helicopter.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat he was thirty-seven years old.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd that he needed to get to a hospital.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOutside those facts, the world and his place in it wasn’t so much hidden as printed in a foreign nomenclature beyond his comprehension. He could sense the truth hovering on the outskirts of consciousness, but it lay just out of reach.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe walked up a quiet residential street, studying every car he passed. Did one of them belong to him?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe houses that faced each other were pristine—freshly painted with perfect little squares of bright grass framed by picket fences and each household name stenciled in white block letters on the side of a black mailbox.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn almost every backyard, he saw a vibrant garden, bursting not only with flowers but vegetables and fruit.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAll the colors so pure and vivid.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMidway through the second block, he winced. The exertion of walking had drawn a deep breath out of him, the pain in his left side stopping him in his tracks. Removing his jacket, he pulled his oxford out of his waistline, unbuttoned the shirt, and opened it. Looked even worse than it felt—all down his left side stretched a dark purple bruise, bull’s-eyed with a swath of jaundiced yellow.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSomething had hit him. Hard.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe ran his hand lightly over the surface of his skull. The headache was there, becoming more pronounced by the minute, but he didn’t feel any signs of severe trauma beyond tenderness on the left side.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe buttoned his shirt back, tucked it into his pants, and continued up the street.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe blaring conclusion was that he’d been involved in some sort of accident.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMaybe a car. Maybe a fall. Maybe he’d been attacked—that could explain why he carried no wallet.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe should go to the police first thing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eUnless . . . \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhat if he’d done something wrong? Committed a crime?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWas that possible?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMaybe he should wait, see if anything came back to him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThough nothing about this town struck him as remotely familiar, he realized, as he stumbled up the street, that he was reading the name on every mailbox. A subconscious thing? Because down in the recesses of memory he knew that one of these mailboxes would have his name printed across the side? And that seeing it would bring everything back?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe buildings of downtown lifted above the pines several blocks ahead, and he could hear, for the first time, the noise of cars in motion, distant voices, the hum of ventilation systems.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe froze in the middle of the street, involuntarily cocking his head.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe was staring at a mailbox that belonged to a red-and-green two-story Victorian.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eStaring at the name on the side of it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis pulse beginning to accelerate, although he didn’t understand why.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMackenzie\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Mackenzie.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe name meant nothing to him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Mack . . .”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut the first syllable did. Or rather, it prompted some emotional response.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Mack. Mack.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWas he Mack? Was that his first name?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“My name’s Mack. Hi, I’m Mack, nice to meet you.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNo.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe way the word rolled off his tongue, it wasn’t natural. Didn’t feel like anything that belonged to him. If he was honest, he hated the word, because it conjured up . . . \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFear.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHow strange. For some reason, the word instilled fear.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHad someone named Mack hurt him?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe walked on.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThree more blocks brought him to the corner of Main and Sixth Street, where he sat down on a shaded bench and took a slow, careful breath. He looked up and down the street, eyes desperate for anything familiar.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNot a chain store in sight.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere was a pharmacy catty-corner from where he sat. A café next door.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA three-story building next to the café with a sign overhanging the stoop:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWayward Pines Hotel\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe smell of coffee beans pulled him off the bench. He looked up, saw a place called the Steaming Bean halfway up the block that had to be the source.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHmm.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWasn’t necessarily the most useful piece of knowledge, all things considered, but it dawned on him that he loved good coffee. Craved it. Another tiny piece of the puzzle that constituted his identity.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe walked to the coffee shop and pulled open the screened door. The shop was small and quaint, and just by the smell of things, he could tell they brewed great product. A bar down the right side faced espresso machines, grinders, blenders, bottles of flavor shots. Three stools were occupied. A few sofas and chairs lined the opposite wall. A bookshelf of faded paperbacks. Two old-timers were at war on a chessboard with mismatched pieces. The walls displayed local artwork—a series of black-and-white self-portraits of some middle-aged woman whose expression never changed from photo to photo. Only the focus of the camera changed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe approached the cash register.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen the twentysomething barista with blonde dreadlocks finally noticed him, he thought he detected a flicker of horror in her pretty eyes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDoes she know me?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn a mirror behind the register he caught his reflection and immediately understood what had prompted her look of disgust—the left side of his face was blanketed in a massive bruise, and his left eye bulged, nearly swollen shut.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy God. Someone beat the shit out of me.New York Times bestselling author of Dark Matter and Recursion","brand":"Ballantine Books","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46301340827877,"sku":"NP9780593598320","price":20.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780593598320.jpg?v=1767734798","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/pines-isbn-9780593598320","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}