“They’re monsters, and they’re going to kill us.”

Trauma, trauma all the way down. Felker-Martin writes like she’s firing an assault rifle twenty feet away from an overripe watermelon while “Ultraviolence” by Lana Del Rey plays from a broken speaker somewhere to your left. It’s disorienting and it’s summer, and it’s hot, and the explosion of pulpy fruit flesh sticks to your skin and the smell won’t come out of your hair and the seeds sting your cheeks. Her books stay on your skin. You can scrub it raw but you’ll always feel them.

Anyways, this was like “The Thing” but at a conversion camp: sadder and transer. Full brutal, all gas, no breaks.

4/5 I’d read toilet paper if Gretchen Felker-Martin wrote it.