conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me a description for a book titled Exploded View about I>Exploded, View</I, BR>&#147;The with the genre: Mystery, Thriller & Suspense, Thrillers & Suspense.. Start with the sentence '<div>&#147;A police procedural that says as much about the present day as it does about the culture of the near-future'.
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conversations.value: <div>&#147;A police procedural that says as much about the present day as it does about the culture of the near-future. With an ending that will leave you reeling, <I>Exploded View</I> forces you to question everything you think you know about reality.&#8221;<BR>&#151;Richard Cox, author of <I>The Boys of Summer</I> <BR> <BR>&#147;The book&#8217;s powerful themes&#151;the relationship of police to policed, trust in governmental authority, trust in the media, immigrant tensions, and generational change&#151;are sharply executed... [<I>Exploded View</I>] might just leave you hesitating before taking the next reblogged video at face value.&#8221;<BR>&#151;<I>Kirkus</I> <BR> <BR>&#147;A futuristic police procedural that echoes themes by Philip K. Dick and Charles Stross. The suspense here builds to a satisfying conclusion resonating with authentic emotion and a profound question about life.&#8221;<BR>&#151;<I>Booklist</I> <BR> <BR>&#147;Darker, grittier, and definitely <I>funnier</I> than most cyberpunk fare, <I>Exploded</I> View is a twisted, witty, occasionally insane novel about the horrors of a world not that far removed from our own.&#8221;<BR>&#151;<I>Barnes and Noble Sci-Fi & Fantasy Blog</I> <BR> <BR>&#147;The writing is raw and the dialogue is real; <I>Exploded View</I> is not a story of what could be, but what may well be, and in the not-too-distant future, at that.&#8221;<BR>&#151;Steven John, author of <I>Outrider</I> and <I>Three A.M.</I> <BR> </div>
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the first paragraph for this book.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Exploded View
  She'd seen a photography exhibit, not long after she'd moved out west, called "Our Common Humanity." The show had focused on the impoverished undersides of every continent, featuring a variety of portraits and slumscapes, each with the huddled masses of the third world staring directly at the audience, matching the camera's gaze with faces leeched of humor or hope. Terri had been haunted by the huge, luminous photos, the entire exhibition composed entirely of prewar pictures, so that all its defiant pain was already anachronistic, a peek backward.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me four more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Back on the freeway, the car synced itself with another vehicle whose thudding bass rattled the windows in 4/4 rhythm. She closed her eyes, trying to focus, to place herself ahead of the urgency instead of behind it, even as the car raced toward her destination, its sheer acceleration giving the opposite impression, that she was late for a deadline that may or may not have already expired.
  As she did in all moments of calm sandwiched by commotion, she tried to recap, to focus on the particulars of what had happened, to sift for clues. Yesterday's conversation with Zack in front of City Hall—the stubbornly disorienting weirdness of it—stayed with her. She called Carla in audio, on the civilian shades, filling her in on the scene at the house and the subsequent race to the Zuma fish mart. "There aren't many public places with the kinds of security barriers they have in Zuma."
  In terms of surveillance, the tent-covered Fish Mart was the same thing as the Santos community, a space outside regular civic detection, where the luxury of anonymity came built into the price. For police purposes, zones like the Zuma Fish Mart posed as much of a pain in the ass as the Swap Meet. Carla had two drones circling far overhead. Both would be of as much use to Terri as the seagulls even farther overhead, swooping in larger circles and then dipping to the nearby waves in sequence.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Add another sentence about Terri, Fish, Mart's, realized, arrived, parking.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Back on the freeway, the car synced itself with another vehicle whose thudding bass rattled the windows in 4/4 rhythm. She closed her eyes, trying to focus, to place herself ahead of the urgency instead of behind it, even as the car raced toward her destination, its sheer acceleration giving the opposite impression, that she was late for a deadline that may or may not have already expired. 
  As she did in all moments of calm sandwiched by commotion, she tried to recap, to focus on the particulars of what had happened, to sift for clues. Yesterday's conversation with Zack in front of City Hall—the stubbornly disorienting weirdness of it—stayed with her. She called Carla in audio, on the civilian shades, filling her in on the scene at the house and the subsequent race to the Zuma fish mart. 
  Terri realized she'd already arrived at the Fish Mart's long sandy parking area. "There aren't many public places with the kinds of security barriers they have in Zuma. "
  In terms of surveillance, the tent-covered Fish Mart was the same thing as the Santos community, a space outside regular civic detection, where the luxury of anonymity came built into the price. For police purposes, zones like the Zuma Fish Mart posed as much of a pain in the ass as the Swap Meet. Carla had two drones circling far overhead. Both would be of as much use to Terri as the seagulls even farther overhead, swooping in larger circles and then dipping to the nearby waves in sequence.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the last three paragraphs.. End with the sentence ' The eye seemed to ask, Why did I have to come all the way here if I just have to leave again?
  THANKS: Lisa Auerbach, Felicia Berryman, Christina Brown, Neil Burke, Noelle Burke, Zack Carlson, Jan Chipchase, Bradley Englert, Laura Fleischauer, Leandra Gil, Oliver Hall, Bob Hardt, Joel Kyack, Ashley Macomber, Mickie McCormic, Amy McPheeters, Tom McPheeters, David Nathanson, Dave Nesmith, Arwen Nicks, Nicole Peeke, Jesse Pearson, Joe Preston, John Skaritza, Mark Steese, Mark Yolles.'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Paula had never closed her eyes. She'd glanced about in confused terror, meeting Terri's gaze, darting off again, locking eyes again. A realization came. Terri had seen into this woman's life from overhead, the components of her final day fanned out like parts in a technical drawing. She'd seen why Paula had been made to kill, why she was dying, truths this twenty-two-year-old would never know, even now, in the last few moments of her existence. Paula was dead before the paramedics arrived.
  Terri had sat like this with her dog, Congo, the day he'd died. They'd never gotten any sort of autopsy, so she'd never been sure if he'd been brought down by a stroke or an aneurysm. Whatever it'd been, it'd laid Congo out, so that when she found him on the kitchen floor, he was flat on one soaked side, panting and immobilized. Congo's eye had moved like Paula's, roaming, taking in her face, and then roaming again. She'd felt that the dog was trying to grasp the enormity of what had happened, not just the internal calamity that had felled him, but the entirety of his life. Congo had been reduced to a single eye, taking in the beautiful world he had been thrust into and just as quickly exiled from. The eye had come to rest on hers one last time, beseeching and terrified. The eye seemed to ask, Why did I have to come all the way here if I just have to leave again?
  THANKS: Lisa Auerbach, Felicia Berryman, Christina Brown, Neil Burke, Noelle Burke, Zack Carlson, Jan Chipchase, Bradley Englert, Laura Fleischauer, Leandra Gil, Oliver Hall, Bob Hardt, Joel Kyack, Ashley Macomber, Mickie McCormic, Amy McPheeters, Tom McPheeters, David Nathanson, Dave Nesmith, Arwen Nicks, Nicole Peeke, Jesse Pearson, Joe Preston, John Skaritza, Mark Steese, Mark Yolles.