I first came across Jim Shepard’s work in County Highway last year, a story titled “The Sons of Liberty.” I’ve never gone in for historical fiction, but I was enjoying it too much, too immediately, to remember to think of genre. After I finished, for a long time, I lay in the emotion, staring up at the ceiling on a Sunday afternoon, during what must have been the summer. When I finally got up I was late to meet Brandon Westlake. I ran the print copy over to him and waved it around in the wind. “You’ve gotta read this guy,” I said, though to Canadian ears I must’ve been yelling. “This guy is writing better than anyone out there.”
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