“Beautiful, vivid writing and a power-packed plot . . . I truly loved it.” –Lauren Tarshis, bestselling author of the I SURVIVED series (on Storm Blown)
About the Author: Nick Courage is a co-founder of Littsburgh and has been running the site since 2015! He’s also a New Orleans-born writer—and aspiring skateboarder and baker—who lives in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania with his wife (the Young Adult novelist and literary agent Rachel Ekstrom Courage). His work has appeared in The Paris Review Daily, Story, and Writer’s Digest. The Loudness was his first novel for young readers. His last book, Storm Blown, is available at your local bookstore and online… and his next book, Snow Struck (Delacorte Press, Penguin Random House), is publishing on February 15th!
More Info A Junior Library Guild Gold Standard Selection
“Awesome. Super-intense, suspenseful, edge-of-your-seat stuff.” –Max Brallier, New York Times bestselling author of the Last Kids on Earth series (on Storm Blown)
“A page-turning climate disaster set in New York City [….] Courage maintains a swift pace bolstered by engaging appearances, including a candy-loving climate scientist and Pizza Rat.” –Publishers Weekly (New and Noteworthy)
“This story skillfully provides a manageable, survivable view of factually terrifying possibilities. Important, adventurous.”–Kirkus
Author Site From the Publisher: “Neither Elizabeth nor her little brother, Matty, have ever been north of Georgia. They’re used to sandals and shorts, not boots and parkas. So when they fly to New York City to spend the holidays with their cousin Ashley, they want to experience one thing: SNOW!
Ashley can’t wait to show her cousins how magical Manhattan is at Christmastime. But instead of a week of fun, what they get is an arctic blast that knocks out the power and plunges the skyscrapers into darkness. It’s unreal: the blizzard covers the Statue of Liberty in ice and topples the famous Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center!
When Ashley’s dog, Fang, gets lost outside, the cousins take matters into their own hands… and are caught in the storm’s dangerous path as they chase Fang across the frozen city. Can the little Pomeranian survive the cold, snow, and ice blanketing Manhattan? Can they?”
Q&A with Nick
PART ONE
Washington Square Park, Manhattan
December 24, 2:30 p.m.
The tiny hawk shifted from one foot to the other on top of her cold marble perch, a thick crust of hail crackling beneath her talons as she peered into the wind. It didn’t blow so much as scream, ripping down Fifth Avenue from the arctic tundra of Central Park and swelling the streets with never-ending snow. Tendrils of ice from ruptured pipes and water mains crept through fissures in the earth as the snow banked higher and higher against darkened windows and strained awnings, so deep that the city groaned beneath its weight. The hawk tilted her head against the storm, her red eyes staring—unblinking—at a shadow, gray and grainy behind a curtain of white.
Movement.
It had been twenty-four hours since the East River had frozen over and more than twice that long since the Cooper’s hawk had eaten. Over a million pigeons—plump and easy pickings—had disappeared at the first sign of frost, secreting themselves into rotting cornices and abandoned lofts while gray squirrels nestled deep in the hearts of hollowed-out plane trees. Even the rats had been driven underground, into the roots of the city: a tangle of sewers and subways where they huddled for warmth. Only the deer—who had traversed the thickening ice floes on the Hudson River from New Jersey in search of food—roamed the streets.
Shoulders taut, the little hawk leaned forward on her perch, talons flexing with anticipation as the shadow shuffled out from behind a half-buried cab. It was a squat, pigeon-shaped bird with wind-ruffled feathers so perfectly suited to the weather that it seemed to almost disappear into the shimmering wall of the storm. Snowy white and unaware, it pecked hopefully at its feet as the hawk’s eyes narrowed, ravenously judging the puff of the smaller bird’s chest while it scratched for grubs and other signs of frozen life beneath the ice.
So comfortable in the biting cold.
And so far from home.
The Cooper’s hawk spread her wings, her rust-red feathers rippling atop the triumphal arch as she launched herself into the howling wind. In the half-second before she connected with the helpless ivory gull, the empty park looked almost peaceful. Somewhere beneath the snow and ice, Christmas lights still twinkled and thick, airy snowflakes swirled over the surrounding brownstones like a scene from a picture book. If it were any other year, a smiling Salvation Army Santa Claus would be ringing his bell as pink-cheeked carolers gathered beneath the arch with hot chocolate in mittened hands. But caroling—long-since canceled—was the last thing on anyone’s mind. It had been days since the high end of the forecasts had dropped below zero and the trains had stopped running. Even without the citywide curfew, there was no one left outside to hear the startled cries of the ivory gull as Fifth Avenue erupted in an explosion of feathers.
No last-minute shoppers.
No tourists dodging snowballs.
In the hours after the governor declared a state of emergency, they’d jostled shoulders on overcrowded subway platforms and shouted into their phones from endless airport lines, waiting to board planes that would never take off as taxis fishtailed across black ice, slamming into parked cars and telephone poles. Blocking the plows. It was only after news of frostbitten evacuees spread throughout the tri-state area that stranded vacationers finally accepted the inevitable: there was no outrunning the historic blizzard. Their only options were to wait for the roads to clear . . . or for help.
Whichever came first.
The snow, so bright it was blinding despite the sunless sky, darkened where the little hawk struggled to subdue her prey, black talons squeezing with all of her might as the two birds sank into the rippling frost. Two thousand miles from his rocky nest, the ivory gull shrieked, pecking wildly at the little hawk’s chest—his wings flapping frantically, beating against the side of her head. But the hawk’s hold was too strong, and she was too hungry for sympathy. Tightening her grip, the little hawk looked away as she waited for the fight to drain from the visiting gull, her red eyes drawn to the thickening gauze of the horizon.
Before long, Washington Square Park was quiet again.
Quiet except for the unrelenting wind.
And then a shout, trembling and muffled by the snow.
“Hello?”
This excerpt from Snow Struck is published here courtesy of the publisher and should not be reproduced without permission.
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