For fans of The Last Bookstore on Earth and Compound Fracture , a heart-pounding rural horror following a genderqueer teen who survives a near-apocalypse, only to be hunted by a mysterious monster whose very existence is entwined with their own. From a breathtaking new voice in YA, this story is for anyone haunted by the sins of past generations—and fighting to right them. When Cedar was a child, fragmented, tortured souls woke up in the world's most complex machines, destroying them and pushing technology back decades. A fall. The Fall, some said, and they called it Autumn. Ten years later, following a family tragedy, Cedar moves to the nowhere town of Sawblade Lake only to find something hunting them. A long, bent shadow that reeks like rot and has the mouth of a deep crevice. It's after Cedar, and it’s willing to go to any lengths to break them, including preying on Cedar’s new queer family. The closer it circles, the more it seems to weave through Cedar’s whole life. It might stretch back to their mother’s gruesome, inexplicable death, to the murk of their missing family, to the house they grew up in. Back and back and back to the first day of Autumn. Cedar thought they understood how their world had changed, but they’re far from dredging the bottom. Praise for The Saw Mouth : " Raw , unsettling , and new-bruise tender , The Saw Mouth completely captured me. Plett’s horror debut is a gift to readers looking for the bright heart in the dark.”—Rory Power, New York Times bestselling author of Wilder Girls " Powerful , poetic , haunting . Plett imagines a spellbinding world of awakened machines and human resilience."—Darcie Little Badger, award-winning author of A Snake Falls to Earth " Grimy , brutal , and brilliant , with a painfully vivid queer cast and a setting so well constructed you can smell the smoke. Plett holds back nothing in this story of fierce love and tested loyalty."—Matteo L. Cerilli, author of Lockjaw "More than a horror tale, this is the story of deeply felt connection finding its way through layers of trauma. It’s a story of finding shelter in people, when darkness tries its best to inhabit you. Stunning ."—Tanya Boteju, author of Bruised CALE PLETT is a nonbinary, gender-fluid writer living in Winnipeg, Manitoba. They grew up on a dead-end gravel road and used to get lost in the woods for fun, scary abandoned cabin and all. They are the author of the queer YA romance Wavelength , an Indie Next pick, and The Saw Mouth . Chapter One Three Weeks Earlier Abraham’s Corner marks the first intersection of paved roads we’ve hit in an hour. I’ve been on a bus heading west on a secondary highway—a narrow slash through the wilderness. Just exposed rock, pine trees, and lake after lake. The late-June dusk has been settling around us as we go through the last stretch, so every time we pass another lake, the water seems a little blacker. I haven’t seen a single indicator that the town I’m heading for even exists. I’m beginning to think maybe I’ll ride this bus to wherever the road runs out, but then the forest abruptly opens up enough for a gas station and an intersection. A wooden sign nailed to a tree tells me the name of this place in barely legible carved letters. Abraham’s Corner. The driver pulls onto the gravel in front of the gas station. The announcement system’s long dead, so he turns in his seat and calls, “All passengers for Sawblade Lake!” Of the dozen people on the bus, I’m the only one to react. I grab my backpack and head down the aisle. “Is this Sawblade Lake?” I’ve never been there, but I’m not seeing anything where we’ve stopped besides the small gas station and store. “It’s as close as we get.” He sounds apologetic. I knew the person at the depot paused for too long before they sold me my ticket last night. The driver gestures out the front windshield to a signpost with sharp arrows. Two simply labeled North and East . The west one is for Fort something. And pointing south, Sawblade—34 Miles . “Not many people head that way anymore.” I have to. The bus recedes down the highway, leaving me alone in the parking lot in the humid air and dust. I imagine myself getting smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror. Tall, angular, wearing a black thrift store dress with a scattering of small flowers embroidered on it. No luggage besides my backpack slung over one shoulder. It’s enough. Even without the bag, I’m overburdened with what I can’t leave behind. I slap a mosquito off my neck, leaving some specks of blood. A crushed body I flick to the ground. Part of me wants to see the bus’s brake lights come on. For it to turn around and for the driver to finish saying what he really meant. Are you sure you want to go there? There’s nothing else at Abraham’s Corner other than the twin streetlights at the crossroads. One’s lifeless, and the other flickers. The building itself sports chipped white paint, a pair of pumps, and a w