Ice Age.

Across the heartless expanse of middle America, a teenage girl is riding shotgun with an older man. She watches him; she sees her fascination tallied in the black looks of waitresses, the knowing smiles of motel clerks. The man can see no proper way of conducting this relationship but is bound to her by concern and tenderness; perhaps desire. The girl craves only closeness. She knows the Ice Age is coming, and we will need to huddle together for warmth. Kirsten Reed's debut novel, with its echoes of Nabokov, Kerouac and Bret Easton Ellis, captures the translucent moment at the end of childhood in all its awkwardness, sincerity and heedless vulnerability.