{"product_id":"tell-the-machine-goodnight-isbn-9780525533139","title":"Tell the Machine Goodnight","description":"\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003eFINALIST FOR 2018 KIRKUS PRIZE\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003eNAMED ONE OF THE \"BEST LITERARY FICTION OF 2018' BY KIRKUS REVIEWS\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Sci-fi in its most perfect expression…Reading it is like having a lucid dream of six years from next week, filled with people you don't know, but will.\" —\u003ci\u003eNPR\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\"[Williams’s] wit is sharp, but her touch is light, and her novel is a winner.\" – \u003ci\u003eSan Francisco Chronicle\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Between seasons of \u003ci\u003eBlack Mirror\u003c\/i\u003e, look to Katie Williams' debut novel.\" \u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eRefinery29\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSmart and inventive, a page-turner that considers the elusive definition of happiness.\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePearl's job is to make people happy. As a technician for the Apricity Corporation, with its patented happiness machine, she provides customers with personalized recommendations for greater contentment. She's good at her job, her office manager tells her, successful. But how does one measure an emotion? \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMeanwhile, there's Pearl's teenage son, Rhett. A sensitive kid who has forged an unconventional path through adolescence, Rhett seems to find greater satisfaction in being \u003ci\u003eunhappy\u003c\/i\u003e. The very rejection of joy is his own kind of \"pursuit of happiness.\" As his mother, Pearl wants nothing more than to help Rhett--but is it for his sake or for hers? Certainly it would make Pearl happier. Regardless, her son is one person whose emotional life does not fall under the parameters of her job--not as happiness technician, and not as mother, either. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTold from an alternating cast of endearing characters from within Pearl and Rhett's world, \u003ci\u003eTell the Machine Goodnight\u003c\/i\u003e delivers a smartly moving and entertaining story about the advance of technology and the ways that it can most surprise and define us. Along the way, Katie Williams playfully illuminates our national obsession with positive psychology, our reliance on quick fixes. What happens when these obsessions begin to overlap? With warmth, humor, and a clever touch, Williams taps into our collective unease about the modern world and allows us see it a little more clearly.\"[Williams’s] wit is sharp, but her touch is light, and her novel is a winner.\" – \u003ci\u003eSan Francisco Chronicle\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"The book feels like an extended episode of ‘Black Mirror,’ and certainly has that show’s taste for dark humor and high-concept philosophizing around our tech addition, though what raises it above another clever-clever slab of science fiction is that its characters are complex and contradictory and real...Williams offers a master class in not losing sight of the human element… the kind of story that – in the subtlest of ways – can instruct us, and nourish us, and make us want to live and love a little better.\"—Matt Haig, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Allow me to introduce you to your new favorite writer. Katie Williams plunges into our obsession with technology and its effect on our lives and dreams, and emerges with miraculous gifts for us—she unwraps the present and the future.\" \u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003eJames Hannaham, award-winning author of \u003ci\u003eDelicious Foods: A Novel\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"[A] vivid, clever debut.\" —\u003ci\u003eO, the Oprah Magazine\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"With its large heart, compelling cast of characters and frighteningly-not-far-from-reality technology, \u003ci\u003eTell the Machine Goodnight\u003c\/i\u003e is a story that will compel you to keep reading, while also allowing you the space to meditate on the understanding that happiness looks different for everyone.\" —\u003ci\u003ePopMatters\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\"Sci-fi in its most perfect expression…Reading it is like having a lucid dream of six years from next week, filled with people you don't know, but will.\" —NPR\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\"Inventive debut.\" —\u003ci\u003eReal Simple\u003c\/i\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Between seasons of \u003ci\u003eBlack Mirror\u003c\/i\u003e, look to Katie Williams' debut novel.\" —\u003ci\u003eRefinery29\u003c\/i\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\"Delightfully weird and humorous...a fascinating exploration of our increasing reliance on technology and our obsession with finding a quick fix for everything.\" —\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003eShondaland\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\"So fundamentally human that it transcends time—our insatiable need to feel better, to decipher whatever happiness means.\" \u003ci\u003e—\u003ci\u003eBookPage\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Williams's debut, a savvy take on technology's potential and its moral failings, imagines a near future in which lives are altered by a happiness machine...Williams never allows satire to overtake her story's moral center or its profoundly generous and humanistic heart, resulting in a sharp and moving novel.\" —\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"With its clever, compelling vision of the future, deeply human characters, and delightfully unpredictable story, this novel is itself a receipe for contentment.\" —\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e, starred review\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\"My prescription for happiness is: ‘Sit still, read a book that can't be classified by genre, and tell everyone.’ I'm telling you, Katie Williams delivers. \u003ci\u003eTell the Machine Goodnight\u003c\/i\u003e transcends categorization in the best way possible—it is part love story, part science fiction, part feminist inspirational wake-up call, and all of it moving and compelling. I never knew what was going to happen and, when I found out, I was always delighted.\" —Helen Ellis, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e-bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eAmerican Housewife\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\"\u003c\/i\u003ePhilosophical, funny, cleverly structured, unpredictable. The characters are recognizably humans, but not ones I have met before; the world-building is creative and completely convincing. I doubt I will ever read another a novel with a more moving trip up a VR mountain.\" —Gabrielle Zevin, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e-bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eYoung Jane Young \u003c\/i\u003eand \u003ci\u003eThe Storied Life of A.J. Fikry\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\"Filled with extraordinary writing, wish-they-existed characters, and unexpected narrative turns\u003ci\u003e, \u003c\/i\u003ethis novel will delight your mind and heart.\" \u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003eCourtney Maum, author of \u003ci\u003eTouch\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eI Am Having So Much Fun Here Without You\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\"Katie Williams’s fierce moral intelligence sparks off the page…Generous, perceptive, intensely smart: this\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003eis just the novel we need.\" \u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003eKirstin Valdez Quade, award-winning author of \u003ci\u003eNight at the Fiestas\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\"How much control do we have over our own happiness\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003eand would we be better off if we had the ability to nudge it just a little more?…A captivating, thought-provoking and utterly charming novel about the elusive nature of happiness and the limits of both technology and our own self-knowledge.\" \u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003eCarolyn Parkhurst, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times-\u003c\/i\u003ebestselling author of \u003ci\u003eHarmony\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eThe Dogs of Babel\u003c\/i\u003eKatie Williams's short fiction has appeared in \u003ci\u003eThe Atlantic, American Short Fiction, Prairie Schooner, Subtropics\u003c\/i\u003e, and elsewhere. Williams earned her MFA from the Michener Center for Writers at the University of Texas at Austin. She teaches writing and literature at Academy of Art University in San Francisco. She is the author of two young adult novels, \u003ci\u003eThe Space Between Trees\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eAbsent\u003c\/i\u003e.  This is her first novel for adults.1\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The Happiness Machine\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Apricity (archaic): the feeling of sun on one's skin in the winter\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The machine said the man should eat tangerines. It listed two      other recommendations as well, so three in total. A modest number,      Pearl assured the man as she read out the list that had appeared      on the screen before her: one, he should eat tangerines on a      regular basis; two, he should work at a desk that received morning      light; three, he should amputate the uppermost section of his      right index finger.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The man-in his early thirties, by Pearl's guess, and pinkish      around the eyes and nose in the way of white rabbits or      rats-lifted his right hand before his face with wonder. Up came      his left, too, and he used its palm to press experimentally on the      top of his right index finger, the finger in question. Is he going      to cry? Pearl wondered. Sometimes people cried when they heard      their recommendations. The conference room they'd put her in had      glass walls, open to the workpods on the other side. There was a      switch on the wall to fog the glass, though; Pearl could flick it      if the man started to cry.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I know that last one seems a bit out of left field,\" she said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Right field, you mean,\" the man-Pearl glanced at her list for his      name, one Melvin Waxler-joked, his lips drawing up to reveal      overlong front teeth. Rabbitier still. \"Get it?\" He waved his      hand. \"Right hand. Right field.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Pearl smiled obligingly, but Mr. Waxler had eyes only for his      finger. He pressed its tip once more.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"A modest recommendation,\" Pearl said, \"compared to some others      I've seen.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Oh sure, I know that,\" Waxler said. \"My downstairs neighbor sat      for your machine once. It told him to cease all contact with his      brother.\" He pressed on the finger again. \"He and his brother      didn't argue or anything. Had a good relationship actually, or so      my neighbor said. Supportive. Brotherly.\" Pressed it. \"But he did      it. Cut the guy off. Stopped talking to him, full stop.\" Pressed      it. \"And it worked. He says he's happier now. Says he didn't have      a clue his brother was making him unhappy. His twin brother.      Identical even. If I'm remembering.\" Clenched the hand into a      fist. \"But it turned out he was. Unhappy, that is. And the machine      knew it, too.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"The recommendations can seem strange at first,\" Pearl began her      spiel, memorized from the manual, \"but we must keep in mind the      Apricity machine uses a sophisticated metric, taking into account      factors of which we're not consciously aware. The proof is borne      out in the numbers. The Apricity system boasts a nearly one      hundred percent approval rating. Ninety-nine point nine seven      percent.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"And the point three percent?\" The index finger popped up from      Waxler's fist. It just wouldn't stay down.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Aberrations.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Pearl allowed herself a glance at Mr. Waxler's fingertip, which      appeared no different from the others on his hand but was its own      aberration, according to Apricity. She imagined the fingertip      popping off his hand like a cork from a bottle. When Pearl looked      up again, she found that Waxler's gaze had shifted from his finger      to her face. The two of them shared the small smile of strangers.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"You know what?\" Waxler bent and straightened his finger. \"I've      never liked it much. This particular finger. It got slammed in a      door when I was little, and ever since . . .\" His lip drew up,      revealing his teeth again, almost a wince.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"It pains you?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"It doesn't hurt. It just feels . . . like it doesn't belong.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Pearl tapped a few commands into her screen and read what came      back. \"The surgical procedure carries minimal risk of infection      and zero risk of mortality. Recovery time is negligible, a week,      no more. And with a copy of your Apricity report-there, I've just      sent that to you, HR, and your listed physician-your employer has      agreed to cover all relevant costs.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Waxler's lip slid back down. \"Hm. No reason not to then.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"No. No reason.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He thought a moment more. Pearl waited, careful to keep her      expression neutral until he nodded the go-ahead. When he did, she      tapped in the last command and, with a small burst of      satisfaction, crossed his name off her list. Melvin Waxler. Done.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I've also recommended that your workpod be reassigned to the      eastern side of the building,\" she said, \"near a window.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Thank you. That'll be nice.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Pearl finished with the last prompt question, the one that would      close the session and inch her closer to her quarterly bonus. \"Mr.      Waxler, would you say that you anticipate Apricity's      recommendations will improve your overall life satisfaction?\" This      phrasing was from the updated training manual. The question used      to be Will Apricity make you happier? but Legal had decided that      the word happier was problematic.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Seems like it could,\" Waxler said. \"The finger thing might lower      my typing speed.\" He shrugged. \"But then there's more to life than      typing speed.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"So . . . yes?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Sure. I mean, yes.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Wonderful. Thank you for your time today.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Mr. Waxler rose to go, but then, as if struck by an impulse, he      stopped and reached out for the Apricity 480, which sat on the      table between them. Pearl had just last week been outfitted with      the new model; sleeker than the Apricity 470 and smaller, too, the      size of a deck of cards, the machine had fluted edges and a light      gray casing that reflected a subtle sheen, like the smoke inside a      fortune-teller's ball. Waxler's hand hovered over it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"May I?\" he said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e At Pearl's nod, he tapped the edge of the Apricity with the tip of      the finger now scheduled to be amputated in-confirmations from      both HR and the doctor's office had already arrived on Pearl's      screen-a little over two weeks. Was it Pearl's imagination or did      Mr. Waxler already stand a bit taller, as if an invisible yoke had      been lifted from his shoulders? Was the pink around his eyes and      nose now matched by a healthy flush to the cheek?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Waxler paused in the doorway. \"Can I ask one more thing?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Certainly.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Does it have to be tangerines, or will any citrus do?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e pearl had worked as a contentment technician for the Apricity      CorporationÕs San Francisco office since 2026. Nine years. While      her colleagues hopped to new job titles or start-ups, Pearl stayed      on. Pearl liked staying on. This was how sheÕd lived her life.      After graduating college, Pearl had stayed on at the first place      that had hired her, working as a nocturnal executive assistant for      brokers trading in the Asian markets. After having her son, sheÕd      stayed on at home until heÕd started school. After getting married      to her college boyfriend, sheÕd stayed on as his wife, until      Elliot had an affair and left her. Pearl was fine where she was,      thatÕs all. She liked her work, sitting with customers who had      purchased one of ApricityÕs three-tiered Contentment Assessment      Packages, collecting their samples, and talking them through the      results.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Her current assignment was a typical one. The customer, the      up-and-coming San Francisco marketing firm !Huzzah!, had purchased      Apricity's Platinum Package in the wake of an employee death, or,      as Pearl's boss had put it, \"A very un-merry Christmas and to one      a goodnight!\" Hours after the holiday party, a !Huzzah! copywriter      had committed suicide in the office lounge. The night cleaning      service had found the poor woman, but hours too late. Word of the      death had made the rounds, of course, both its cause and its      location. !Huzzah!'s January reports noted a decrease in worker      productivity, an accompanying increase in complaints to HR.      February's reports were grimmer still, the first weeks of March      abysmal.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e So !Huzzah! turned to the Apricity Corporation and, through them,      Pearl, who'd been brought into !Huzzah!'s office in SoMa to create      a contentment plan for each of the firm's fifty-four employees.      Happiness is Apricity. That was the slogan. Pearl wondered what      the dead copywriter would think of it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The Apricity assessment process itself was noninvasive. The only      item that the machine needed to form its recommendations was a      swab of skin cells from the inside of the cheek. This was Pearl's      first task on a job, to hand out and collect back a cotton swab,      swipe a hint of captured saliva across a computer chip, and then      fit the loaded chip into a slot in the machine. The Apricity 480      took it from there, spelling out a personalized contentment plan      in mere minutes. Pearl had always marveled at this: to think that      the solution to one's happiness lay next to the residue of the      bagel one had eaten for breakfast!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e But it was true. Pearl had sat for Apricity herself and felt its      effects. Though for most of Pearl's life unhappiness had only ever      been a mild emotion, not a cloud overhead, as she'd heard others      describe it, surely nothing like the fog of a depressive, none of      this bad weather. Pearl's unhappiness was more like the wisp of      smoke from a snuffed candle. A birthday candle at that. Steady,      stalwart, even-keeled: these were the words that had been applied      to her since childhood. And she supposed she looked the part: dark      hair cropped around her ears and neck in a tidy swimmer's cap;      features pleasing but not too pretty; figure trim up top and round      in the thighs and bottom, like one of those inflatable dolls that      will rock back up after you punch it down. In fact, Pearl had been      selected for her job as an Apricity technician because she      possessed, as her boss had put it, \"an aura of wooly contentment,      like you have a blanket draped over your head.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"You rarely worry. You never despair,\" he'd gone on, while Pearl      sat before him and tugged at the cuffs of the suit jacket she'd      bought for the interview. \"Your tears are drawn from the puddle,      not the ocean. Are you happy right now? You are, aren't you?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I'm fine.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"You're fine! Yes!\" he shouted at this revelation. \"You store your      happiness in a warehouse, not a coin pouch. It can be bought      cheap!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Thank you?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"You're very welcome. Look. This little guy likes you\"-he'd      indicated the Apricity 320 in prime position on his desk-\"and that      means I like you, too.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e That interview had been nine years and sixteen Apricity models      ago. Since then Pearl had suffered dozens more of her boss's      vaguely insulting metaphors and had, more importantly, seen the      Apricity system prove itself hundreds-no, thousands of times.      While other tech companies shriveled into obsolescence or swelled      into capitalistic behemoths, the Apricity Corporation, guided by      its CEO and founder, Bradley Skrull, had stayed true to its      mission. Happiness is Apricity. Yes, Pearl was a believer.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e However, she was not so na•ve as to expect that everyone else must      share her belief. While Pearl's next appointment of the day went      nearly as smoothly as Mr. Waxler's-the man barely blinked at the      recommendation that he divorce his wife and hire a series of      reputable sex workers to fulfill his carnal needs-the appointment      after that went unexpectedly poorly. The subject was a middle-aged      web designer, and though Apricity's recommendation seemed a minor      one, to adopt a religious practice, and though Pearl pointed out      that this could be interpreted as anything from Catholicism to      Wicca, the woman stormed out of the room, shouting that Pearl      wanted her to become weak minded, and that this would suit her      employer's purposes quite well, wouldn't it, now? Pearl sent a      request to HR to schedule a follow-up appointment for the next      day. Usually these situations righted themselves after the subject      had had time to contemplate. Sometimes Apricity confronted people      with their secret selves, and, as Pearl had tried to explain to      the shouting woman, such a passionate reaction, even if negative,      was surely a sign of just this.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Still, Pearl arrived home deflated-the metaphorical blanket over      her head feeling a bit threadbare-to find her apartment empty.      Surprisingly, stunningly empty. She made a circuit of the rooms      twice before acknowledging that Rhett had, for the first time      since he'd come back from the clinic, left the house of his own      volition. A shiver ran through her and gathered, buzzing, beneath      each of her fingernails. She fumbled with her screen, pulling it      from the depths of her pocket and unfolding it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Just got home,\" she spoke into it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e k, came the eventual reply.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"You're not here,\" she said. What she wanted to say: Where the      hell are you?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e fnshd hw wnt out came back.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Be home in time for dinner.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The alert that her message had been sent and received sounded like      her screen had heaved a deep mechanical sigh.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Her apartment was in the outer avenues of the city's Richmond      District. You could walk to the ocean, could see a corner of it      even, gray and tumbling, if you pressed your cheek against the      bathroom window and peered left. Pearl pictured Rhett alone on the      beach, walking into the surf. But no, she shouldn't think that      way. Rhett's absence from the apartment was a good thing. It was      possible-wasn't it?-that he'd gone out with friends from his old      school. Maybe one of them had thought of him and decided to call      him up. Maybe Josiah, who'd seemed the best of the bunch. He'd      been the last of them to stop visiting, had written Rhett at the      clinic, had once pointed to one of the dark bruises that had      patterned Rhett's limbs and said, Ouch, so sadly and sweetly it      was as if the bruise were on his own arm, the blood pooling under      the surface of his own unmarked skin.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Pearl said it now, out loud, in her empty apartment.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Ouch.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Speaking the word brought no pain.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e To pass the hour until dinner, Pearl got out her latest modeling      kit. The kits had been on Apricity's contentment plan for Pearl.      She was nearly done with her latest, a trilobite from the Devonian      period. She fitted together the last plates of the skeleton, using      a tiny screwdriver to turn the tinier screws hidden beneath each      synthetic bone. This completed, she brushed a pebbled leathery      material with a thin coat of glue and fitted the fabric snugly      over the exoskeleton. She paused and assessed. Yes. The trilobite      was shaping up nicely.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e When it came to her models, Pearl didn't skimp or rush. She      ordered high-end kits, the hard parts produced with exactitude by      a 3-D printer, the soft parts grown in a brew of artfully spliced      DNA. Once again, Apricity had been correct in its assessment.      Pearl felt near enough to happiness in that moment when she sliced      open the cellophane of a new kit and inhaled the sharp smell of      its artifice.","brand":"Riverhead Books","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46303630786789,"sku":"NP9780525533139","price":18.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780525533139.jpg?v=1767737882","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/tell-the-machine-goodnight-isbn-9780525533139","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}