{"product_id":"the-never-game-isbn-9780525535959","title":"The Never Game","description":"\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003eThe first installment in Jeffery Deaver’s Colter Shaw series\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003e—the inspiration for the \u003c\/b\u003eCBS original series \u003ci\u003eTRACKER\u003c\/i\u003e starring Justin Hartley!\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe son of a survivalist family, Colter Shaw is an expert tracker. Now he makes a living as a “reward seeker,” traveling the country to help police solve crimes and locate missing persons for private citizens. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e“You’ve been abandoned. Escape if you can. Or die with dignity.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHired by the father of a young woman who has gone missing in Silicon Valley, Shaw's search takes him into the dark heart of America’s cutthroat billion-dollar video-game industry. When another person goes missing, Shaw must ask: Is a madman bringing a twisted video game to life?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEncountering eccentric designers, trigger-happy gamers, and ruthless tech titans, Shaw soon learns that he isn't the only one on the hunt: someone is on his trail and closing fast....\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNamed a Crime Novel of the Year by \u003ci\u003eThe \u003ci\u003eNew York Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eThe Never Game\u003c\/i\u003e proves once more why “Deaver is a genius when it comes to manipulation and deception” (Associated Press).\u003cb\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eThe Never Game\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Jeffery Deaver creates insanely devious plots calculated to make your head explode…[\u003ci\u003eThe Never Game\u003c\/i\u003e] dazzles with its crafty twists and turns.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Deaver introduces a fascinating new character in the methodical Colter Shaw. Nothing is predictable in the case, and like a curvy mountain road, the twists are intense. Hopefully more stories with Shaw are in the future.”\u003cb\u003e—Associated Press\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“As always Deaver gets you in his stealthy grip on page one, and then takes you on a wild and inventive ride...this time with new star character Colter Shaw.  No one in the world does this kind of thing better than Deaver.”\u003cb\u003e—Lee Child\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“With a twisty plot, riveting characters, and relentless suspense, \u003ci\u003eThe Never Game \u003c\/i\u003efires on every single cylinder. Readers will delight in this compelling new character from one of the finest suspense writers in the field. I always look forward to the new Deaver, but this one tops them all.”\u003cb\u003e—Karin Slaughter\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“Lightning-fast and loaded with twists, \u003ci\u003eThe Never Game\u003c\/i\u003e is a thrill a minute from one of the best.  Don’t miss it.”\u003cb\u003e—Harlan Coben\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“[A] superb series launch from Thriller Award winner Deaver…Fans of twisty suspense that pushes the envelope of plausibility without inviting disbelief will be enthralled.”—\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e (starred review)\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The story is—this will come as no surprise to Deaver’s many fans—full of twists and right-angle turns, and a second Colter Shaw novel feels not just inevitable but mandatory. Deaver is a hit maker who always delivers the goods.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Award-winning author Deaver  introduces an engaging new protagonist with staying power. Colter’s backstory is fascinating and his persona as much a part of the tale as the crime itself. This is a sure bet for fans of suspense and will find a home with those who like their protagonists to be a central part of the mystery.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eLibrary Journal\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Jeffery Deaver is a one of our most exciting storytellers, and \u003ci\u003eThe Never Game \u003c\/i\u003epulls off the remarkable feat of intertwining a devilish plot with unforgettable characters, fascinating disquisitions with propulsive action, every element conspiring to make it almost impossible to not turn the page. I absolutely loved it.”\u003cb\u003e—Chris Pavone\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Jeffery Deaver knows how to deliver exactly what a reader wants. He has a gift for place and character and, here, the tension ratchets up, page by page, as we follow the exploits of a new hero. Crisply plotted and fraught with danger.”\u003cb\u003e—Steve Berry\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Terrific writing, vivid and raw, Deaver grips from the very first line and never lets up. He is, hands-down, one of the finest thriller writers of our time.”\u003cb\u003e—Peter James\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eThe Never Game\u003c\/i\u003e is the very definition of a page-turner.”\u003cb\u003e—Ian Rankin \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Grabbing you from the first page, Jeffery Deaver crafts a devilish plot that unfolds with breakneck speed. An excellent start to a new series, Colter Shaw has comfortably nestled onto the bench with Lincoln Rhyme and Kathryn Dance - one of our best literary puppet-masters at the end of all their strings.”\u003cb\u003e—J.D. Barker\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Jeffery Deaver scores yet again with a fascinating new detective, Colter Shaw, and a plot as full of thrills and twists and turns as you would expect from him. With \u003ci\u003eThe Never Game\u003c\/i\u003e you know you are in the hands of a master. But be warned—don’t start this too late in the evening because sleep would be an annoying interruption once you’ve started reading!”\u003cb\u003e—Peter Robinson\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“[\u003ci\u003eThe Never Game\u003c\/i\u003e] has film adaptation written all over it.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eBookpage\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I loved \u003ci\u003eThe Never Game \u003c\/i\u003eand I particularly loved its hero, Colter Shaw, the original and fascinating investigator at the heart of the book. It’s a twisty 'keep you up all night'page-turner of a book with a wonderfully human core. A fantastic read.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003cb\u003eKate Hamer, author of\u003ci\u003e \u003ci\u003eThe Girl in the Red Coat\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eJeffery Deaver\u003c\/b\u003e is the #1 international bestselling author of more than forty novels, three collections of short stories, and a nonfiction law book. His books are sold in 150 countries and translated into 25 languages. His first novel featuring Lincoln Rhyme\u003ci\u003e, The Bone Collector\u003c\/i\u003e, was made into a major motion picture starring Denzel Washington and Angelina Jolie. He's received or been shortlisted for a number of awards around the world, including Novel of the Year by the International Thriller Writers and the Steel Dagger from the Crime Writers' Association in the United Kingdom. In 2014, he was the recipient of three lifetime achievement awards. A former journalist, folksinger, and attorney, he was born outside of Chicago and has a bachelor of journalism degree from the University of Missouri and a law degree from Fordham University.1.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe asked the woman to repeat herself.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"That thing they throw,\" she said. \"With the burning rag in it?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"They throw?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Like at riots? A bottle. You see 'em on TV.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eColter Shaw said, \"A Molotov cocktail.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Yeah, yeah,\" Carole was saying. \"I think he had one.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Was it burning? The rag part?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"No. But, you know . . .\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCarole's voice was raspy, though she wasn't presently a smoker that Shaw had seen or smelled. She was draped with a green dress of limp cloth. Her natural expression seemed to be one of concern yet this morning it was more troubled than usual. \"He was over there.\" She pointed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe Oak View RV park, one of the scruffier that Shaw had stayed at, was ringed with trees, mostly scrub oak and pine, some dead, all dry. And thick. Hard to see \"over there.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"You called the police?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA pause. \"No, if it wasn't a . . . What again?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Molotov cocktail.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"If he didn't have one, it'd be embarrassing. And I call the cops enough, for stuff here.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShaw knew dozens of RV park owners around the country. Mostly couples, as it's a good gig for middle-aged marrieds. If there's just a single manager, like Carole, it was usually a she, and she was usually a widow. They tend to dial 911 for camp disputes more than their late husbands, men who often went about armed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"On the other hand,\" she continued, \"fire. Here. You know.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCalifornia was a tinderbox, as anybody who watched the news knew. You think of state parks and suburbs and agricultural fields; cities, though, weren't immune to nature's conflagrations. Shaw believed that one of the worst brush fires in the history of the state had been in Oakland, very near where they were now standing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Sometimes, I kick somebody out, they say they'll come back and get even.\" She added with astonishment, \"Even when I caught them stealing forty amps when they paid for twenty. Some people. Really.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe asked, \"And you want me to . . . ?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I don't know, Mr. Shaw. Just take a look. Could you take a look? Please?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShaw squinted through the flora and saw, maybe, motion that wasn't from the breeze. A person walking slowly? And if so did the pace mean that he was moving tactically-that is, with some mischief in mind?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCarole's eyes were on Shaw, regarding him in a particular way. This happened with some frequency. He was a civilian, never said he was anything else. But he had cop fiber.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShaw circled to the front of the park and walked on the cracked and uneven sidewalk, then on the grassy shoulder of the unbusy road in this unbusy corner of the city.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYes, there was a man, in dark jacket, blue jeans and black stocking cap, some twenty yards ahead. He wore boots that could be helpful on a hike through brush and equally helpful to stomp an opponent. And, yes, either he was armed with a gas bomb or he was holding a Corona and a napkin in the same hand. Early for a beer some places; not in this part of Oakland.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShaw slipped off the shoulder into the foliage to his right and walked more quickly, though with care to stay silent. The needles that had pitched from branch to ground in droves over the several past seasons made stealth easy.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhoever this might be, vengeful lodger or not, he was well past Carole's cabin. So she wasn't at personal risk. But Shaw wasn't giving the guy a pass just yet.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis felt wrong.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNow the fellow was approaching the part of the RV camp where Shaw's Winnebago was parked, among many other RVs.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShaw had more than a passing interest in Molotov cocktails. Several years ago, he'd been searching for a fugitive on the lam for an oil scam in Oklahoma when somebody pitched a gas bomb through the windshield of his camper. The craft burned to the rims in twenty minutes, personal effects saved in the nick. Shaw still carried a distinct and unpleasant scent memory of the air surrounding the metal carcass.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe percentage likelihood that Shaw would be attacked by two Russian-inspired weapons in one lifetime, let alone within several years, had to be pretty small. Shaw put it at five percent. A figure made smaller yet by the fact that he had come to the Oakland\/Berkeley area on personal business, not to ruin a fugitive's life. And while Shaw had committed a transgression yesterday, the remedy for that offense would've been a verbal lashing, a confrontation with a beefy security guard or, at worst, the police. Not a firebomb.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShaw was now only ten yards behind the man, who was scanning the area-looking into the trailer park as well as up and down the road and at several abandoned buildings across it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe man was trim, white, with a clean-shaven face. He was about five-eight, Shaw estimated. The man's facial skin was pocked. Under the cap, his brown hair seemed to be cut short. There was a rodent-like quality to his appearance and his movements. In the man's posture Shaw read ex-military. Shaw himself was not, though he had friends and acquaintances who were, and he had spent a portion of his youth in quasi-military training, quizzed regularly on the updated U.S. Army Survival Manual FM 21-76.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd the man was indeed holding a Molotov cocktail. The napkin was stuffed into the neck of the bottle and Shaw could smell gasoline.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShaw was familiar with revolver, semiautomatic pistol, semiautomatic rifle, bolt-action rifle, shotgun, bow and arrow and slingshot. And he had more than a passing interest in blades. He now withdrew from his pocket the weapon he used most frequently: his mobile, presently an iPhone. He punched some keys and, when the police and fire emergency dispatcher answered, whispered his location and what he was looking at. Then he hung up. He typed a few more commands and slipped the cell into the breast pocket of his dark plaid sport coat. He thought, with chagrin, about his transgression yesterday and wondered if the call would somehow allow the authorities to identify and collar him. This seemed unlikely.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShaw had decided to wait for the arrival of the pros. Which is when a cigarette lighter appeared in the man's hand with no cigarette to accompany it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat settled the matter.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShaw stepped from the bushes and closed the distance. \"Morning.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe man turned quickly, crouching. Shaw noted that he didn't reach for his belt or inside pocket. This might have been because he didn't want to drop the gas bomb-or because he wasn't armed. Or because he was a pro and knew exactly where his gun was and how many seconds it would take to draw and aim and fire.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNarrow eyes, set in a narrow face, looked Shaw over for guns and then for less weaponly threats. He took in the black jeans, black Ecco shoes, gray-striped shirt and the jacket. Short-cut blond hair lying close to his head. Rodent would have thought \"cop,\" yet the moment for a badge to appear and an official voice to ask for ID or some such had come and gone. He had concluded that Shaw was civilian. And not one to be taken lightly. Shaw was about one-eighty, just shy of six feet, and broad, with strappy muscle. A small scar on cheek, a larger one on neck. He didn't run as a hobby but he rock-climbed and had been a champion wrestler in college. He was in scrapping shape. His eyes held Rodent's, as if tethered.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Hey there.\" A tenor voice, taut like a stretched fence wire. Midwest, maybe from Minnesota.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShaw glanced down at the bottle.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Could be pee, not gas, don'tcha know.\" The man's smile was as tight as the timbre of his voice. And it was a lie.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWondering if this'd turn into a fight. Last thing Shaw wanted. He hadn't hit anybody for a long time. Didn't like it. Liked getting hit even less.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"What's that about?\" Shaw nodded at the bottle in the man's hand.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Who are you?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"A tourist.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Tourist.\" The man debated, eyes rising and falling. \"I live up the street. There's some rats in an abandoned lot next to me. I was going to burn them out.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"California? The driest June in ten years?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShaw had made that up but who'd know?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNot that it mattered. There was no lot and there were no rats, though the fact that the man had brought it up suggested he might have burned rats alive in the past. This was where dislike joined caution.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNever let an animal suffer . . . \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThen Shaw was looking over the man's shoulder-toward the spot he'd been headed for. A vacant lot, true, though it was next to an old commercial building. Not the imaginary vacant lot next to the man's imaginary home.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe man's eyes narrowed further, reacting to the bleat of the approaching police car.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Really?\" Rodent grimaced, meaning: You had to call it in? He muttered something else too.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShaw said, \"Set it down. Now.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe man didn't. He calmly lit the gasoline-soaked rag, which churned with fire, and like a pitcher aiming for a strike, eyed Shaw keenly and flung the bomb his way.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e2.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMolotov cocktails don't blow up-there's not enough oxygen inside a sealed bottle. The burning rag fuse ignites the spreading gas when the glass shatters.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhich this one did, efficiently and with modest spectacle.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA silent fireball rose about four feet in the air.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShaw dodged the risk of singe and Carole ran, screaming, to her cabin. Shaw debated pursuit, but the crescent of grass on the shoulder was burning crisply and getting slowly closer to tall shrubs. He vaulted the chain-link, sprinted to his RV and retrieved one of the extinguishers. He returned, pulled the pin and blasted a whoosh of white chemical on the fire, taming it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Oh my God. Are you okay, Mr. Shaw?\" Carole was plodding up, carrying an extinguisher of her own, a smaller, one-hand canister. Hers wasn't really necessary, yet she too pulled the grenade pin and let fly, because, of course, it's always fun. Especially when the blaze is nearly out.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAfter a minute or two, Shaw bent down and, with his palm, touched every square inch of the scorch, as he'd learned years ago.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNever leave a campfire without patting the ash.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA pointless glance after Rodent. He'd vanished.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA patrol car braked to a stop. Oakland PD. A large black officer, with a glistening, shaved head, climbed out, holding a fire extinguisher of his own. Of the three, his was the smallest. He surveyed the embers and the char and replaced the red tank under his front passenger seat.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOfficer L. Addison, according to the name badge, turned to Shaw. The six-foot-five cop might get confessions just by walking up to a suspect and leaning down.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"You were the one called?\" Addison asked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I did.\" Shaw explained that the person who'd thrown the cocktail had just run off. \"That way.\" He gestured down the weedy street, handfuls of trash every few yards. \"He's probably not too far away.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe cop asked what had happened.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShaw told him. Carole supplemented, with the somewhat gratuitous addendum about the difficulty of being a widow running a business by herself. \"People take advantage. I push back. I have to. You would. Sometimes they threaten you.\" Shaw noted she'd glanced at Addison's left hand, where no jewelry resided.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAddison cocked his head toward the Motorola mounted on his shoulder and gave Central a summary, with the description from Shaw. It had been quite detailed but he'd left out the rodent-like aspect, that being largely a matter of opinion.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAddison's eyes turned back to Shaw. \"Could I see some ID?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere are conflicting theories about what to do when the law asks for ID and you're not a suspect. This was a question Shaw often confronted, since he frequently found himself at crime scenes and places where investigations were under way. You generally didn't have to show anybody anything. In that case, you'd have to be prepared to endure the consequences of your lack of cooperation. Time is one of the world's most valuable commodities, and being pissy with cops guarantees you're going to lose big chunks of it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis hesitation at the moment, though, was not on principle but because he was worried that his motorbike's license had been spotted at the site of yesterday's transgression. His name might therefore be in the system.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThen he recalled that they'd know him already; he'd called 911 from his personal phone, not a burner. So Shaw handed over the license.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAddison took a picture of it with his phone and uploaded the details somewhere.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShaw noted that he didn't do the same with Carole, even though it was her trailer court that had tangentially been involved. Some minor profiling there, Shaw reflected: stranger in town versus a local. This he kept to himself.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAddison looked at the results. He eyed Shaw closely.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA reckoning for yesterday's transgression? Shaw now chose to call it what it was: theft. There's no escape in euphemism.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eApparently the gods of justice were not a posse after him today. Addison handed the license back. \"Did you recognize him?\" he asked Carole.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"No, sir, but it's hard to keep track. We get a lot of people here. Lowest rates in the area.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Did he throw the bottle at you, Mr. Shaw?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Toward. A diversion, not assault. So he could get away.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis gave the officer a moment's pause.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCarole blurted: \"I looked it up online. Molotov secretly worked for Putin.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBoth men looked at her quizzically. Then Shaw continued with the officer: \"And to burn the evidence. Prints and DNA on the glass.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAddison remained thoughtful. He was the sort, common among police, whose lack of body language speaks volumes. He'd be processing why Shaw had considered forensics.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe officer said, \"If he wasn't here to cause you any problem, ma'am, what was he here about, you think?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBefore Carole answered, Shaw said, \"That.\" He pointed across the street to the vacant lot he'd noted earlier.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe trio walked toward it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe trailer camp was in a scruffy commercial neighborhood, off Route 24, where tourists could stage before a trip to steep Grizzly Peak or neighboring Berkeley. This trash-filled, weedy lot was separated from the property behind it by an old wooden fence about eight feet tall. Local artists had used it as a canvas for some very talented artwork: portraits of Martin Luther King, Jr., Malcolm X and two other men Shaw didn't recognize. As the three got closer, Shaw saw the names printed below the pictures: Bobby Seale and Huey P. Newton, who'd been connected with the Black Panther Party. Shaw remembered cold nights in his television-free childhood home. Ashton would read to Colter and his siblings, mostly American history. Much of it about alternative forms of governance. The Black Panthers had figured in several lectures.","brand":"G.P. Putnam's Sons","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46299937571045,"sku":"NP9780525535959","price":10.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780525535959.jpg?v=1767740655","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/the-never-game-isbn-9780525535959","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}