conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me a plot for a book about Chang, Reacher, Keever entitled Make Me.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Make Me (novel): Somewhere in the sprawling, flat, desolate Midwestern United States, a man named Keever is killed and buried beneath a pig sty in an isolated farm.\nReacher arrives by train at a small town named Mother\'s Rest, curious as to the story behind the name.\nHe meets a Chinese American woman named Chang who is apparently searching for a lost associate.\nThinking that the town may have once been a young mother\'s delivery site or perhaps the final resting place of an old woman, Reacher wanders the town asking the locals about the name, but he does not learn anything.\nHe decides to befriend Chang, who reveals she is an ex-FBI agent turned private investigator who is looking for her colleague; Keever.\nReacher\'s suspicions are aroused by the aloofness of the locals and he decides to stay in the town to help with Chang\'s investigations.\nChang explains that she was only recently called in by Keever and does not know the identity of his client or any of the details of his case.\nSearching Keever\'s motel room, Reacher finds a crumpled up note with the name "Maloney" and a phone number.\nIt belongs to a journalist from Los Angeles named Westwood who is the Science Editor and handles calls from conspiracy theorists, which he eventually blocks after numerous calls.\nHe turns out to be a dead end.\nReacher and Chang then turn their search to Maloney, believing him to be Keever\'s contact and a resident of Mother\'s Rest.\nAs they investigate the town, they are confronted by hostile locals whom Reacher quickly defeats while stealing their handguns.\nReacher and Chang then visit Keever\'s home, finding it to be ransacked with all of the man\'s investigative notes missing.\nReacher becomes convinced that Keever had stumbled onto something big and been killed for it, and the two decide to go to Los Angeles to meet with Westwood.\nConvincing the journalist that Keever had been onto something newsorthy, they agree to give Westwood exclusive rights to the story in exchange for his help.\nWestwood reluctantly agrees and gives Reacher the phone numbers of unknown people who had recently called him and been blocked, thus fitting the profile of Keever\'s mystery client.\nThey learn that their man Maloney is actually a Chicago resident named Peter McCann.\nArriving at McCann\'s home, they find he has gone missing.\nThey are then attacked by a hitman named Hackett, who is narrowly incapacitated by Reacher after sustaining moderate injuries.\nThe two then question McCann\'s neighbor and learn that Peter had a sister.\nAt her home in Phoenix, they are attacked by even more hired assassins.\nWith the help of Chang\'s FBI contacts, they learn the men are all employed by a Ukrainian crime lord named Merchenko.\nReacher deduces that Merchenko is either the mastermind or outside security in the mastermind\'s employ.\nThe puppet master is apparently someone indigenous to the town of Mother\'s Rest.\nBy an amazing coincidence, Reacher and Chang happen across Merchenko outside of his club.\nReacher righteously executes the criminal in broad daylight.\nTraveling back to Los Angeles, Reacher and Chang reunite with Westwood.\nGoing over all that they learned from McCann\'s sister and neighbor, Reacher posits that Peter was investigating the disappearance of his son, Michael.\nMichael had suffered from anhedonia and was a recluse who spent the majority of his time on the Internet.\nAs the call from "Maloney" had been about the Deep Web, Reacher, Chang and Westwood meet with an associate of Westwood\'s, a computer hacker in Palo Alto.\nWestwood\'s contact is able to discover that Mother\'s Rest has a Deep Web site providing assisted euthanasia services.\nThey further find that Michael had been speaking with another suicidal person over the Deep Web and arranged to meet them in Mother\'s Rest to undergo euthanasia together.\nReacher, Chang and Westwood come up with a plan to assault the pig farm outside Mother\'s Rest which is both highly remote and well-defended.\nAfter a mildly challenging, routine job of killing all of the armed employees, Reacher\'s team discovers that someone had converted the farmhouse into a film production facility.\nThe entrepreneurs had lured in suicidal people over the Deep Web with promises of painlessly luxurious euthanasia services.\nOnce the clients had arrived however, they were actually made the stars of expensive snuff films tailored to the viewer\'s specifications and sold over the Deep Web.\nOver two hundred such victims had been brutally murdered prior to Keever stumbling onto it in the course of his investigating Michael\'s disappearance.\nReacher and Chang avenge Keever, Peter, and Michael by killing the last members of the conspiracy.\nIn the aftermath of all that dirty work they decide to spend a little downtime in Milwaukee together.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the first five paragraphs for this book.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Make Me
  They pulled chairs close to the glass table and crowded around the screen to read. Michael McCann was signed up for two suicide boards. In both cases he posted under the name of Mike. He wrote flatly, laboriously, as if numbed, as if exhausted by his burdens. His spelling was good, and his grammar was formal. Not naturally, Reacher thought, but as if he had been told there was a special way to do it, out in the public domain. Like public speaking. You put on a shirt and tie.
  The first board was the hook-up board. Michael was looking for a sympathetic companion. Not that he needed help. Not all of the time. More that he felt he could give it. At least some of the time. In many months he had brief conversations with two candidates, and then seemed to settle on a third, who went by the name of Exit. They began messaging often.
  Meanwhile the second board was the how board, which sometimes strayed into other discussions. Michael contributed now and then, with measured words, and never with anger or haste. He defended his right to catch the bus. He showed up in a thread about how to take Nembutal. He was anxious for guidance. In its commercial form its taste was said to be bitter. Best to mask it with juice, or chase it with scotch, which enhanced its efficiency anyway. It was always wise to take an anti-emetic beforehand, like a sea-sickness pill. No one wanted to throw up and be left with a less-than-fatal dose on board. No one wanted to wake up twenty hours later, with it all to do again.
  Then over on the hook-up board, a day later, Michael told Exit he had checked the Mother's Rest web site, and he thought Exit should look at it too, because there was much to discuss, especially on level five.
  The guy from Palo Alto said, "Think of the onion. Many layers. Deeper and deeper. The Web itself, and every site on it. The sign-in page is usually level two. Level four is usually the first page of merchandise. Therefore level five is likely to be special merchandise."
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me five more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The man with the jeans and the hair said, "He claims he's a customer. He brought a lot of money. We're going to take a look."
  They brought the guy to the diner, but before they let him in they talked among themselves about the helicopters. Everyone was there, apart from Moynahan's brother. The one who had gotten kicked in the balls and had his gun taken. The discussion was brief, and there was no consensus. There were two trains of thought. Either it was general reconnaissance ahead of a further incursion at a future date, in which case it had likely involved cameras and thermal imaging and ground-penetrating radar, or it was the actual search for Keever itself, which they had long predicted would include the air, in which case it would involve pretty much the same technology, but it would find nothing either, because of the hogs.
  The guy they showed in looked healthy. Like a guy from the National Geographic channel. Scruffy gray hair, scruffy gray beard. Forty-five, maybe. Weird kind of clothes with a lot of zippers. Bootlaces like mountain-climbing ropes.
  He said he had ditched his ID. Not just an insurance thing. Although there were certain clauses in his policy. But mostly he wanted to leave people guessing. That was his aim. No trace at all. His paper trail stopped seven hundred miles ago. A small fire, in the bathroom sink in a Nevada motel. All gone. He had driven onward only by night, to minimize risk. He wanted to leave people unsure. And inconvenienced. Seven long years, before a legal presumption.
  Then he looked at the Moynahan who had gotten hit in the head, and he said, "Where's your damn brother?"
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the last four paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: They didn't want to take the crew-cab back to town, because they didn't want to sit where those guys had sat, so they rode the backhoe, as before, Westwood driving, Reacher and Chang face to face above his head, but this time on the dirt road. Which was slow, but more comfortable. They parked in the dealer's lot. The salesman came out. The backhoe was examined. It was a little stained by crushed wheat, and a little scratched on the sides. There was a little dirt caked on. And the front bucket had a dimple, where the bullet had struck. Not new anymore. Not exactly. Reacher gave the guy five grand from their leftover money. Easy come, easy go.
  Westwood gave Chang the key to his rental car, and said goodbye. Reacher walked with her to the diner, where the red Ford was parked.
  She was quiet for a long moment, five or six seconds, right to the edge of discomfort, and then she said, "I don't want to answer that question here. Not in Mother's Rest. Get in the car."
  He did, and she did, and she started the engine. She put the lever in gear, and turned the wheel, and they drove away from the diner, and the dry goods store, to the old wagon train trail, where they turned left and headed west, with the road running straight on ahead of them through the wheat, forever, until it disappeared in the golden haze on the far horizon, at that point as narrow as a needle.