To the list of adjectives, I would add poignant. This novel is teeming in size and scope and yet there is a heartbreaking spareness. In the moment after Deets is lanced by a young brave, Call asks Gus: This is on us, isn’t it? We should have pulled our guns sooner. Gus relies:

I don’t want to start thinking about all the things we should have done for this man.

Heartbreaking.

And this from a woman who could barely stand to read the word ‘poke’.

First, I love the way the narrative is shaped, the writing is exquisite, and there were so many little thought discoveries along the way. At the conclusion, however, I wasn't sure where it had taken me. I took a vacation, I had a lovely time, I'm not sure where I went.
One moment that I found so resonant was Mrs. Flett's theory regarding her depression/nervous breakdown:
"You think she'd be scared to death by the state she's in, but she's not. Her hair's matted, her fingernails broken, her house plants withered, her day-to-day life smashed, but sleeping inside her like a small burrowing creature is the certainty that she'll recover."
I'm not sure that during my serious bouts with anxiety, that I was always certain I'd recover, but there was a well of some kind that could be tapped often enough to keep pushing on. With all the tragic events in the news of persons choosing to end their own lives, one wishes they could have felt their problems temporary and surmountable.