conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is a description for a book titled Eye of the Wolf about North, Carolina, Honestly with the genre: Science Fiction & Fantasy, Fantasy?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: I grew up in North Carolina in a small town at the bottom of the mountains. I started writing my freshman year of high school and finished my first novel in the same year. Honestly, I never set out to be a writer; it's just something I've always loved to do. Now, it's my dream.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is the first five paragraphs for this book?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Eye of the Wolf
  Vicky closed the paper and studied the byline, somebody named Liam Harrison. An AP article, it would be published in newspapers around the country, around the world. She was beginning to think she would be sick. She folded the paper down until it was a narrow, thick stack, as if she could fold the story away, then pulled on her coat, lifted her handbag off the floor, and walked out of the shop, leaving the folded newspaper on the table.
  She moved through a wall of cool, moist air that parted as she headed down Main Street. An imitation of the sun glowed through the layer of gray clouds. There was little warmth in it. She caught sight of the reflection moving beside her in the store windows: Indian woman clutching the top of the black bag slung over her shoulders, crystals of moisture glistening in her black hair. There was no one about, except for the occasional vehicle grinding down Main. There were so many issues, she was thinking, important issues such as managing the wolf population, handling the oil and gas leases, and preserving the water rights and the timber rights, that Arapahos and Shoshones had to work together on. They had to trust one another, or they couldn't live together at Wind River.
  Vicky let herself in the main door of the brick office building and climbed the stairs, the sound of her footsteps clacking into the quiet. In the office, cool air streamed through the vents, and she kept her coat thrown over her shoulders as she worked at her desk, organizing and shuffling papers, trying to concentrate, unable to push out of her mind the fear that the newspaper was right, that a tribal war was about to erupt on the reservation. Detective Burton was good at his job, she told herself. He'd arrest the murderer and everything could return to normal. Normal.
  She slid some papers into file folders and set them in the cardboard boxes that she'd brought to the office last night, then taped the tops closed. The movers would bring the boxes when they came for her furniture. The other file folders would stay: They were part of the firm, hers and Adam's. Theirs. She laughed out loud at the idea that there had been a "theirs."
  The phone started ringing. She reached for the receiver, then pulled her hand back. An old habit, that was all. Emergency calls came on the weekend. There was no need to take an emergency call to a firm of which she was no longer a part. The ringing stopped; the call went to the mailbox. Whatever it was, Adam would get the message Monday.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is four more paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A half-dozen people began rising off the bench and peeling themselves away from the walls as Father John came through the front door. Father Ian was paddling through the crowd. "You have visitors, John," he said.
  Father John was still trying to get his mind around the news. Skulking like a shadow at the back of his thoughts, he realized, was the possibility that Shoshones might retaliate for the murders at Bates, but he hadn't wanted to admit it. He hadn't wanted the shadow to emerge into the light.
  He stole a glance at his watch. Ten minutes before the religious education meeting. Pickups would start rattling around Circle Drive at any moment. The reporters would have a field day swarming over his parishioners.
  He was only partly aware of ushering the reporters through the door, one arm swinging back and forth like a traffic cop—get out, get out—as if the motion of air could propel them outside. "Take your questions to Detective Burton," he heard himself say, his thoughts stuck on Edie Bradbury and Jason Rizzo. He could see the girl, small and pale and blond, scared and hurt because Trent was going to break up with her. Turning to Rizzo...
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Reverse the sentences.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: ... Turning to Rizzo. He could see the girl, small and pale and blond, scared and hurt because Trent was going to break up with her. "Take your questions to Detective Burton," he heard himself say, his thoughts stuck on Edie Bradbury and Jason Rizzo.
  He was only partly aware of ushering the reporters through the door, one arm swinging back and forth like a traffic cop—get out, get out—as if the motion of air could propel them outside. The reporters would have a field day swarming over his parishioners. Pickups would start rattling around Circle Drive at any moment. Ten minutes before the religious education meeting.
  He stole a glance at his watch. He hadn't wanted the shadow to emerge into the light. Skulking like a shadow at the back of his thoughts, he realized, was the possibility that Shoshones might retaliate for the murders at Bates, but he hadn't wanted to admit it.
  Father John was still trying to get his mind around the news. "You have visitors, John," he said. Father Ian was paddling through the crowd.A half-dozen people began rising off the bench and peeling themselves away from the walls as Father John came through the front door
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is the last four paragraphs? Start with the sentence 'The man looked away and launched into a commentary on the ceremony and how the evil spirits would no longer dwell at Bates, how the spirits of his son and the other dead men could now rest in peace'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The man looked away and launched into a commentary on the ceremony and how the evil spirits would no longer dwell at Bates, how the spirits of his son and the other dead men could now rest in peace.
  Father John said he hoped that was the case. He searched the man's eyes, looking for the faintest shadow of interest in Edie Bradbury. There was none. Finally, he shook the Shoshone's hand, patted the woman's arm, and fell in with the other relatives who had started toward the vehicles. Walking alongside them, step by step. Thinking this was right, the Indian priest at this time and in this place, the brown faces turning to him filled with the expectation of comfort and understanding and he trying to summon the words.
  Vicky would be here. Surely, she was here. It wasn't until he glanced back at the canyon that he spotted her, standing alone near the spot where he had found Trent Hunter's body, the spot where the Lamberts had died. He broke away from the others and retraced his steps, past the place where he'd stood, past the place where the elders had made the circle and blessed the battlefield.
  Footsteps were coming up on them. Those would be Adam's footsteps, he knew, even before the man stepped next to Vicky. Then Father John heard his own voice again, the stream of platitudes: congratulations, good luck, wish you both well. Grasping their hands for a moment, his and hers, he backed away. Finally, he turned and headed toward the groups of people converging on the few pickups that were still left. He did wish them well, God knew that was the truth. He wished Vicky a happy and fulfilling life. He wished her—everything good.