Fever Dream

De: Samanta Schweblin

Narrado por: Hillary Huber

‘It’s a total mind-wrecker’ - Max Porter
‘The book I wish I had written’ - Lisa Taddeo
‘Utterly gripping’ - Observer
‘Dazzling’ - Evening Standard

Amanda knows she has to answer the questions. Lying feverish and unseeing in her hospital bed, she tries her best to account for how she came to be there. She remembers the lake, the house, and the strange woman next door with her unthinkable confession. She remembers the fear of losing her young daughter, Nina. Now she is alone and Nina is gone. At what moment did everything go dark?

‘I picked up Fever Dream in the wee hours, and a low, sick thrill took hold of me as I read . . . I was checking the locks in my apartment by page thirty. By the time I finished the book, I couldn’t bring myself to look out the windows’ - Jia Tolentino, The New Yorker

Reseñas de la Crítica

Read this in a single sitting and by the end I could hardly breathe. It's a total mind-wrecker. Amazing. Thrilling. (Max Porter, author of Grief is the Thing with Feathers)

A book to read in one frantic sitting – bold, uncanny and utterly gripping (Observer)

An unnerving read, straddling the realms of the supernatural and of Argentina’s dark recent history

Terrifying and brilliant . . . Dangerously addictive

This daring, ambiguous thriller is an apocalyptic lamentation for our world in free fall, a place in which nothing and no one, not even a child or a horse in a field, is safe

Explosive . . . delivers a skin-prickling masterclass in dread and suspense

Dazzling, unforgettable, and deeply strange. I’ve never read anything like it

Exceptionally written . . . a superlative work of the imagination, resonant, beguiling and truly memorable.' Spectator

The sort of book that makes you look under the bed last thing at night and sleep with the light on

I picked up Fever Dream in the wee hours, and a low, sick thrill took hold of me as I read . . . I was checking the locks in my apartment by page thirty. By the time I finished the book, I couldn’t bring myself to look out the windows (Jia Tolentino, The New Yorker)