Excerpt from The God of the Woods by Liz Moore, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

"Hello? Fire department?" said Van Laar, after being connected. The tone of his voice made Carl sit up straight, place his hand on the table.

"Yes," said Carl, "this is Carl Stoddard of the Shattuck Volunteer Fire Brigade." For a moment, he considered reminding Mr. V of the connection between the two of them. But the quiet urgency in the man's voice dissuaded him.

There was silence on the line. Then came a clicking that Carl determined, after a moment, to be the sound of Van Laar swallowing repeatedly.

"Mr. Van Laar?" said Carl. "Is everything all right there?" "It seems my son is missing," said Van Laar, at last.

"Bear?" said Carl, reflexively. He closed his eyes. Raised a fist to his forehead. It was too complicated to explain how and why he knew the nickname of the Van Laar boy. But he did; they all did, everyone who worked on the grounds. They'd known him since he was a tiny thing. Each May he returned to the Preserve taller, more talkative. He was eight years old that summer: always smiling, always whistling, patrolling the grounds like a watchman, friendly with the staff: the opposite of his stormy father. A good little woodsman, interested in the same things Carl had been interested in as a boy. Bushcraft, survival, that sort of thing. That summer, especially, they had been close: it was only last week that Carl had taught the kid how to recognize which wood was good for a fire. Loose and light and dry, Carl had said. Floppy, almost. And he demonstrated what he meant, slipping a small knife down the length of a cedar plank. Sticking his thumbnail into it.

Just before Carl had left for the day, in fact, he'd seen Bear: he was tying his shoes at the base of the front door to Self‑Reliance. He'd stood up and waved as Carl passed him in his pickup, and Carl had returned the gesture.

If Van Laar was curious about how Carl knew his son, he didn't ask. Instead, to Carl's dismay, he let out a wail, unguarded and wild, and in it Carl—a parent himself, a father of three who had once been a father of four—recognized a feeling he had the misfortune to know well.

"Don't worry," said Carl. "Don't worry, Mr. V. We'll find him." Within five minutes, he had the other three volunteers on the line.

Within twenty, they were in the truck, speeding through the gathering darkness, making their way to the Preserve.

Excerpted from The God of the Woods by Liz Moore. Copyright © 2024 by Liz Moore. Excerpted by permission of Riverhead Books. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.