“My lips pursed in thought. I did have something resembling a strategy, but it was not close to polished, or safe. “It is makeshift at best,” I answered, glancing through the brush toward the duct. The black hole in the side reminded me of a deep, gaping wound that would never heal, a mortal injury that bled darkness into the sunlit morning.” – Nightingale, Chapter 18


About melissamickelsen

Nightingale is Melissa Mickelsen's debut novel. She loves hiking in the mountains, eating strawberries, reading, reading, more reading, and really good barbecue.
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