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408 pages, Hardcover
First published January 22, 2019
Meltwater ran across the roads in streams and hissed under the tires and you could put the window down and smell the earth and you knew the winter wasn’t forever after all and the land would be green again, the river would flow again, and from the bridges you could see the slabs of ice jutting into the air, and if you pulled over and stood on the bank you could see the slabs moving and grinding against each other like icebergs, like ships, all in a tight puzzle-work of pieces and all of it moving together foot by foot downriver, cracking and popping and grinding as the river below swelled with the thaw and pushed and surged and would not be stopped.
“That man down in Georgia,” Gordon said, “that girl’s father? Hell, he ain't even the same man anymore, Sheriff. He’s already some other man.”
"The nose of the car drops over the edge of the bank and world pitches, and their own weight rolls forward through their bodies as at the top of a roller coaster just before the drop--the deep human fear of falling, the plunging heart, and there's no stopping it and no getting out and nothing to do but hold on. And down they go, fast and easy in the snow, toboggan-smooth, hand in hand, their grips so tight, the grips of girls much younger, girls who will not be separated, their faces forward, watching the surface of the river, the black glistening ice as it rushes up toward them, larger and larger, until there's nothing in the windshield but the ice, dark and wide as an ocean and they are going to it, they are going to strike it nose-first with the car and they can imagine that, the sudden ending of forward motion as the car meets the plane of ice, but after that they cannot imagine, they have never been here before and there is no way to know what will happen next except to go through it, and this is the most terrifying thing. . . ."
Because it was only girls… In the river. It’s always been only girls.The Current is not your ordinary mystery/thriller; in fact, I would strongly discourage those who enter its icy, frozen Minnesotan (and Iowan) world to read it solely for the mystery, or else dissuade altogether those looking for a fast-paced thriller.
Did it fade with time, with age? Or did the thing you fought inside yourself just grow bigger, hungrier, until it took you over?If this book doesn’t leave you feeling frozen, like you’ve been stuck in an ice-cold river in a Minnesotan storm, I would be shocked, floored. And if this book doesn’t leave you moved in terms of how it questions generational trauma, isolation, and sexual assault, then the tremendous empathy Johnston’s book holds up to the light of humanity is but a mirror for whatever demons you harbor inside you.