{"product_id":"strange-animals-isbn-9798217092468","title":"Strange Animals","description":"\u003cb\u003eAn ordinary man discovers a hidden world of supernatural creatures—and an unexpected home—in this enchanting contemporary fantasy debut.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e“Unique, haunting, riveting, and beautifully magical.”—Sarah Beth Durst, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/i\u003ebestselling author of \u003ci\u003eThe Spellshop\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e“Anderson has conceived of such a rich world, and such a textured mythology. I can’t remember a time when cryptids felt more . . . real.”—Justin McElroy, #1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/i\u003ebestselling author of the Adventure Zone series\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGreen trips on the curb, falls flat into the street, and sees the city bus speeding toward him. And then . . . \u003ci\u003eblink.\u003c\/i\u003e He’s back on the curb, miraculously still alive. A five-foot-tall crow watches him from atop a nearby sign, somehow unseen by the rushing crowd of morning commuters. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDesperate for answers and beset by more visions of impossible creatures, Green finds his way to a remote campsite in the Appalachian Mountains, where he meets a centuries-old teacher and begins an apprenticeship unlike anything he could imagine. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eUnder his new mentor’s grouchy tutelage, Green studies the time-bending rag moth, the glass fawn, and the menacing horned wolf. He begins to see past hidden nature’s terrors and glimpse its beauty, all while befriending fellow misfits—and finding connection and community. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAlong the way come clues about the forces that set him on this path—and, most incredibly, a sense of purpose and fulfillment like nothing he’s felt before.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut Green’s new happiness promises to be short-lived, because alongside these marvels lurks a deadly threat to this place he’s already come to love.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCreepy, cozy, and beautiful, \u003ci\u003eStrange Animals\u003c\/i\u003e is a fantasy about home, belonging, and the fearfully wonderous nature all around us.“Unique, haunting, riveting, and beautifully magical—this is the kind of strange and wonderful book that you carry around in your heart. You’re in for a special and wondrous ride!”\u003cb\u003e—Sarah Beth Durst, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/i\u003ebestselling author of \u003ci\u003eThe Spellshop\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Anderson has conceived of such a rich world, and such a textured mythology. I can’t remember a time when cryptids felt more . . . real.”\u003cb\u003e—Justin McElroy, #1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eThe Adventure Zone \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I cannot express how much this book scratched an itch I didn’t know I had. The deep wonder and curiosity about nature coupled with the terror of our own insignificance strummed a familiar chord within me, and reading about these singular creatures and Green’s journey confronting them inspired a childlike glee of discovery. I envy everyone who gets to read \u003ci\u003eStrange Animals\u003c\/i\u003e for the first time. I’ll be reading it again and again to revisit that happiness and winkle out every morsel of wisdom breathed by the sage characters within.”\u003cb\u003e—Kevin Hearne, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eCandle \u0026amp; Crow\u003c\/i\u003e and the Iron Druid Chronicles\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I absolutely adore this book. Reading it is like curling up under a blanket with a mug of hot cocoa beside a campfire in the middle of a dark forest and listening to a master storyteller weave tales of cryptids and extradimensional gods. A delight from start to finish.”\u003cb\u003e—Lucy A. Snyder, Bram Stoker Award–winning author of \u003ci\u003eSister, Maiden, Monster\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A wildly inventive, fantastically fun story about a man who goes to find himself and finds so, so much more. I absolutely loved it from the first page.”\u003cb\u003e—Peter Clines, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eParadox Bound\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eGod’s Junk Drawer\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eJarod K. Anderson\u003c\/b\u003e is a strange mix of fantasy nerd, nature writer, podcaster, poet, and erstwhile academic. He once accidentally picked up a rattlesnake and has slept in the branches of a maple tree more than most writers. He created and voices \u003ci\u003eThe CryptoNaturalist,\u003c\/i\u003e a podcast about real love for imaginary nature, and has published three books of poetry as well as a memoir about his lifelong struggle with depression and the healing power of the natural world. He has an MA in early modern English literature and insists he’s more fun than that makes him sound. He lives with his wife and son in a little white house tucked between a park and a cemetery.\u003cb\u003eChapter 1\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eOut and Away\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGreen steered his indigo Toyota Prius around another switchback, stitching his way into the mountains. He willed himself to stop clenching his jaw and try to enjoy the beauty of the landscape, raising his thumb to massage a knot of muscle just below his ear. It was no good. Fifty miles ago, the approaching mountainside wilderness looked beautiful. Now, as cell service became spotty and the sun sank low, beauty shifted to threat.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe one comfort of Green’s drive into the wilderness was that he could not be lost because he didn’t know where he was going.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe acorn rested in his pocket, its figurative weight transferring through his leg to press on the accelerator. That strange little object drove him forward. Only habits and memories drew him back.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis condo in the city was sold.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis resignation was accepted in a neutral, businesslike manner.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis uncle in Columbus didn’t object to being his forwarding address while he “shopped around for a new town to call home.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGiven the end of his engagement to Jess last year, everyone seemed ready to accept his sudden need for a change of scenery. They didn’t ask about his motivations, and he didn’t correct their assumptions.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe started his drive a day ago, passing through city, then suburbs, then soy and cornfields, then forested foothills.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe mountains had looked correct from the distance, but here, now, they felt wrong up close. They were pretty as a far-­off vista, smothering once he was beneath the cage of tree branches.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe place felt watchful, as if Green’s ignorance were a loping thing that raced through the trees beside him, keeping pace with his car. All the things he couldn’t know perceiving him with unguessable purpose and senses. Unguessable, but real and alive all the same.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere, just beyond his windshield, the woods drank in radiation from a nearby star and used that energy to create oxygen, to reproduce, to send chemical messages in a language older than humanity, older than the warm blood of mammals.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe trees lived among practically immortal fungi and spiders that remained largely unchanged since before the dinosaurs came and went. The place knew the constant ebb and flow of species and wonders for which it needed no spoken names.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe knew none of this, but it surrounded him anyway. It tickled the back of his neck until he checked the rearview mirror again and again. That inescapable pressure of the woods defied his social-­media-­hiking-­boot-­ad understanding of nature. This wasn’t a bright portrait of inviting mountainsides or families canoeing crystalline lakes dappled with autumn leaves. This was a dark corridor of trees that leaned down to scowl at you. This was a winding little road through perpetual twilight where help was always too far away to arrive in time to matter.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn the narrow line of sky above the road, he could see the dark silhouettes of three turkey vultures tracing a wheel in the hazy blue as they descended to find their roosts. He swallowed, thinking of coming to \u003ci\u003ethis\u003c\/i\u003e place to rest, then realizing he was on the same errand.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEarlier that morning, waking in his car, stiff in a litter-­strewn parking lot, avoiding busier roads had seemed a pleasant plan. Now, his plan soured as the sun sank low in the west and the once-­distinct tree shadows swelled into a unified darkness.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe poked the console to silence the podcast that was dying a slow death, starved for cell service. As real dark arrived, the sound seemed like a liability. He should be listening, alert to . . . what? He imagined the click of a key in a lock, the final time he stepped away from his condo less than forty-­eight hours earlier. A sound like a lit fuse.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn the month following his not-­quite-­death, he had become preoccupied with moss. And ferns. And a certain mental image of a low fire in the twilight, the way the sparks floated up toward black branches stark against a painter’s sunset. Each morning, he awoke to the feeling that he had just stepped away from that fire and the smell of it clung to his pillow.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs the weeks had passed, a growing part of him remained in that forested elsewhere, with the moss and the ferns and the sparks. To Green, these things became symbols. Talismans. Magic that quieted the constant, silent demands of the absurd acorn that rarely left his pocket.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat acorn was, somehow, his salvation. It was also killing him. Not grinding him into the roadway like a speeding bus, but sending the essential machinery of his inner life off into an unknown wilderness until he felt as hollow and brittle as a cicada shell, a cast-­off molt scraping along a city sidewalk. It had driven him here to the mountains to try to become whole again.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe’d thought it would be easy to find a campground when he reached the Catskills. He’d also thought he would find it before dark. His predictions began failing more frequently the further he got from the city.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eUp the road, electric lights striped the pavement with branching shadows.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGreen let out a breath.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eCivilization.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis headlights illuminated a weather-­faded sign with pink block letters reading the count and countess. Beyond, a squat pink storefront stood behind a row of three gas pumps. The station was an outlandish pink-­on-­pink oasis amid the dark woods.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe pulled into the lot and took in the ambiance of the place, the ten-­dollar firewood bundles and chicken wire cages of stacked propane tanks, the analog gas pumps, the running-­mascara rust stains on the pink rain canopy supports, and the way the darkness was absolute just beyond the humming halo of the station’s lights.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003ePay inside first\u003c\/i\u003e” was written in Sharpie on a “Hello, my name is . . .” tag stuck on the pump.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe lot was abandoned except for a pickup with a plywood tailgate. It had a bumper sticker with no text and a drawing of a vivid yellow banana. He checked his phone. Eight p.m. on a Tuesday in September. No service.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs he walked past his back window, he glanced at the camping equipment piled on the seat. The gear was all new, tags gleaming white. It smelled of rubber and the chemical tang of nylon and preservatives. He had only the most basic knowledge of how any of the equipment was used, but he also had a kind of stubborn, tight-­smiled optimism that he would figure it all out in due time.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe gas station storefront looked like an unfinished mosaic built from moths instead of tiles. Green watched the fluttering shapes and thought, \u003ci\u003eMy first glimpse of wildlife outside the city\u003c\/i\u003e. He tapped his thumb against the acorn.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Happy now?” he asked the lump in his pocket.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt didn’t answer.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMost of the moths were motionless, but occasionally one would blur in a flurry of wings and skitter in a vertical circle before coming to rest again. Leaning in to study them, he couldn’t believe the variety. Shades from ashy gray to violet with a pattern of heavy-­lidded human eyes staring back from the papery wings. Several of the moths had perfectly round mirrored spheres for heads, like droplets of shining mercury. Others gave off heat distortion like the mirages that sway above the surface of summer highways.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGreen swallowed and stepped back.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe forced a smile as he turned and reached for the door.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Nature,” he said to nobody. “Real nature.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe entered with a sleigh bell jingle, colliding with a warm, damp wall of hot dog–­scented air. There were other smells. Dirt. Popcorn. Artificial pine. Motor oil.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTwo teenagers beneath a sign that advertised lottery and live bait turned to look at him. One was working the register and the other, a tall young man wearing a banana-­yellow hoodie, seemed to be there just to keep the other company.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Evening,” the Banana said. “Need something?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis friend behind the register gave Green a deadpan stare while his hands mechanically shuffled a deck of playing cards.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Some interesting moths out there,” Green said. He winced internally. Somehow, in the twenty-four hours since he had last spoken to a person, he had forgotten the trick of it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe Banana frowned, looked toward the storefront, then tapped the counter just above a taped-up handwritten sign that read “\u003ci\u003ePlease No Moth Talk Inside The Station\u003c\/i\u003e.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Oh . . . um . . . sorry.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe Banana shrugged.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“We got a complicated history with entomology here. Plus, ya know, the tax implications. Don’t worry about it. You couldn’t have known.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Right. Sorry again.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGreen hesitated.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Alright, man. Do-­over. What can we help you with?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I need thirty dollars on pump three.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe quiet one tapped his deck on the counter with a sharp \u003ci\u003eclick, click,\u003c\/i\u003e and the Banana looked at him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Oh, yeah, fine. He wants you to think of a card, man,” the Banana said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Think of a card?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Yeah, just think of one. Got the picture in your head?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGreen nodded.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eKing of clubs.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe quiet one flipped a two of clubs out of the deck and displayed it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“That it?” the Banana asked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Uh, no,” Green said.","brand":"Ballantine Books","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":48233586295013,"sku":"NP9798217092468","price":29.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9798217092468.jpg?v=1767737391","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/strange-animals-isbn-9798217092468","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}