ANDREW THOMAS BRESLIN never intended to become a novelist. He’s far more interested in math, medicine, history, experimental neuropharmacology, biology, physics, linguistics, mythology, chemistry, and just about any other subject than he ever was in fiction, which always seemed both dull and pointless. But he learned the hard way that those other disciplines require actual credentials, and being a novelist merely necessitates the sacrifice of any lingering traces of sanity, and by the time he figured that out, there wasn’t much left anyway.

Andrew has traveled between Washington, DC, and Philadelphia, PA, more times than any human or migratory bird in the world and has lived all over the major metropolitan areas of both cities. At any given time, it’s a good bet that he’s on I-95. When in DC, he plays music with his folkie ensemble Jack Couldn’t Make It. He makes occasional journeys to Prague, where the buildings are much prettier and the beer much cheaper, but where people have the annoying habit of conjugating nouns and using “z” as a vowel.

Having recently lost (i.e., quit amidst a blaze of profanity) his job at a certain evil megacorporation which caters to health-conscious consumers and is run by the world’s most ruthless vegan, Andrew now has to pay full price for his soy milk, which he can hardly afford, so he’s looking for a job. Until he finds one, he’ll be supplementing his dwindling savings with freelance research and writing. He used to do a fair amount of this, most often on biotechnology and medicine, with great effort resisting the urge to be sarcastic. He hates it, though, and is looking forward to the day when large piles of money are thrown at him for his book Mother’s Milk and he moves to Prague to drink beer, look at buildings, and resist the smažený syr, at least for a little while. He’s sick of the scenery on I-95.

He eats shoots and leaves. (Olga made him say that.*)

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