9/11,

                       that was the day he kind of snapped. Stopped. Decided he’s done—done asking God to fix things, to go back and erase the past, to pick up the pieces from his parents’ nightmare divorce. If no one else cared, he’d do it himself. He’d join up, go off to Iraq and kill the bad guys, save America, prevent the next 9/11.

 

And that’s exactly what happens. Except it’s all just a repeat.

 

Where’d I go in the explosion, and how am I still alive? Why did Stuart warn me about a little girl dressed up like a flower? Why do I keep dreaming about Brazil?

 

Told with gripping realism, The Killing Flower thrusts the unnamed narrator into the war of the YouTube generation—raw, unfiltered, instantly famous but unimportant, graphic and shocking and ignored. Enemies are anonymous and everywhere. IEDs explode randomly by cell phone. Prescription drugs, recurring nightmares, PTSD—inside, the vines are closing in.

 

Trapped between the lies those around him seem to believe and the lies he’s been telling himself, he is taunted by the reality: he’s failed as a hero, and now it’s too late. He needs a do-over, a chance to change the world—a chance to suggest the one solution that’s never been tried.

Funny. Of all the times in my life I’d asked God to turn back the clock, the one time I didn’t was right after 9/11, and that was what put it all in motion. That’s what led me to the little girl, and she set the stage for it to happen.

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