• The first of two books by Consiglio to be published in the US
• Fate tackles philosophical questions with gentle irony—Consiglio's sense of humor elevates every page
• The idiosyncrasies of music, taxidermy, and weather all populate the book as much as the characters do
• Consiglio's work has earned him critical acclaim and numerous awards in both Argentina and Spain

Marketing Plans

• Social media campaign
• Galleys available
• Co-op available
• Advance reader copies (print and digital)
• National media campaign
• Targeted bookseller mailing
• Simultaneous eBook launch

Amer mixed onion, tomato and avocado. He added salt, pepper, oil and lemon. Nothing special. Just a quick snack. A guacamole. He spread it over a piece of toast and ate it slowly. He had reverted to his habit of standing while eating. He took his time to chew. He savoured the acidity while he let his mind catch in a tangle of ideas that, after a few minutes, wove together, generating a kind of atmosphere, something vague yet as vividly present as the taste of onion now dancing in his mouth.A light bulb hung above his head.The boiler to the right, the fridge to the left. He hadn’t eaten a thing in six hours. He took a sip of red wine. He hesitated, then added a couple of squirts from the soda siphon. He took a quick inhalation of air through his nose – a sigh in reverse – and in this action, as with everything he did that night, pleasure prevailed. Each occurrence, however small and insignificant, was lit by the gleam of celebration. Everything fastened together in a joyful line. Something unstoppable: a chain of wise choices and well-being.He had spent the afternoon working on a brocket deer. It was a small animal and it was in very good shape. Its fur remained unruffled, its snout still pink; only the corneas attested to the final violence.Amer had fulfilled his tasks in strict silence since the age of ten. He blinked rarely, almost never: his tear film was remarkably resilient. What’s more, his everyday work, the toil that paid the bills, justified it; that is, it gave him a reason to live. Amer was delicate: his fingertips were chrysalid-like, as if made of gauze. He was also extremely neat. Neat and delicate, two qualities hugely appreciated in his profession. He believed in giving the benefit of the doubt, in taking things slow, in the steadiness of habit.As per usual, after work, he stood in front of his TV, remote control in hand.The brightness of the screen, its pyrotechnics, was simply spectacular. He flicked from channel to channel.He did this for a while,attentive to the light alone.The images lasted only a few seconds: a male broadcaster in shorts, a set of retractable claws, a crowd, the snowy peak of Cocuy, a plate of food, three aeroplanes up in the air, a plant growing, a building in Richmond, Saturn, the seas of the Moon, Saturn, fish gills, a weather graphic in all its splendour.Yet only one thing persisted in his mind: the image of a brown bear, hibernating. It was a huge beast, but its body still suggested the clumsy movements of a cub. It looked gentle. One of its eyes, the left, was barely open and through it, through that slit, bright as a spark, flashed menace, pure irrationality. Lingering on the image of the bear,Amer went into the kitchen, sharpened a knife against a second blade, and began chopping onions.