The middle third of the book gets dense —and I mean metaphorically tangled. The plot loops like a briar patch. Just when you think Andrew has figured out the rules (don't bleed on the roots, don't eat the fruit that glows), the narrative double-backs into a dream sequence that feels one layer too deep. Some readers will call this "atmospheric." Others will want to grab a machete. I leaned closer to the former, but patience is required.
You’ve drawn the curtains. You’ve locked the door. The garden path is swept clean of leaves, the windowsills wiped of moss. Inside, the air is dry, still, and predictable. This is how you survive. This is how you keep the walls white and the floors straight. Don-t Let the Forest In