Before the world ended, before Father Keith and his home-grown militia, before Alex whispered words I couldn’t understand – we were used to being swept along. Laurel Summer, our mother, was pushed from place to place, man to man. And we were in the undertow with her. From Alaska to Oregon, to California, to Ohio, and then back to Oregon.

Before the world ended, we were overwhelmed once more. Carried forward by an industrial-sized, bristles-as-hard-as-nails broom. We were as adrift as dust. As light as grit tracked in on shoes.

We were easy to sweep.

My novel TAPPING LIGHT began years ago with a vividly dreamed image: a group of children running through a dense forest as branches whipped at their faces and snagged on their clothing. Who were they? What pursued them? Would they escape?

I had to know.

The writing of TAPPING LIGHT was an excavation into a very specific time and place. But it is Kiana’s voice that insists on telling the story.

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