“Without a system, your day can fill up with random stuff that feels urgent but isn’t actually moving you toward anything meaningful,” Decook writes in this pep talk for readers who feel unmoored or unmotivated. “When you’ve got a system—even a loose one—you’re in charge of your time, not the other way around.” In these pages, the author presents just such a system in the form of 10 tools to help readers change their lives. The prompts range from “Create the Picture of Your Future” (“Because once you can see it, you can start building it”) to “Align Yourself With Your Values” (“Know your values. And never compromise them just to fit in”) to “Clear the Space So You Can Soar” (“When we let go of the past—the pain, the people who hurt us, the resentment that’s been festering—we free up this massive amount of energy we can finally use to create a life that feels good”). Roadblocks, she reminds her readers, are a part of the journey. “They’re not a sign to give up,” she writes; “they’re part of the map.” Decook’s direct and affectionately encouraging tone runs throughout the book, underscored by frequent digressions into stories from the author’s own family life, from a childhood she didn’t particularly like to an adulthood full of its own challenges. Compassion is a major theme in the work, as Decook consistently urges her readers to practice kindness and healing: “When we forgive—others and ourselves—we’re not only generous. We’re giving ourselves a chance to heal.” “Action steps” accompany each of the author’s tools to ground the material in practicality, but it’s Decook’s general zest for improvement that will stick with readers.

This novel, based on true events, gives the reader a ringside seat to a cross-country rampage that snuffed out multiple lives in 1950 and ’51. A U.S. Army lieutenant reports his twin brother missing, after he fails to show up for a highly anticipated family visit, and a bullet-riddled car’s discovery in Oklahoma leads police to fear for Carl Mosser, his wife and three children. It quickly prompts the largest nationwide manhunt since the 1930s, when John Dillinger was on the run. A handgun receipt implicates Billy Cook, a parolee with an extensive record and utter contempt for authority (“I’m used to being thrown anywhere,” he taunted his jailers). Law enforcement officials frantically scour the West, with Cook always a step ahead, killing a salesman in Palo Verde, California, and taking a deputy sheriff hostage in Blythe. After he crosses the Mexican border, it’s up to local police to capture him and keep his hostages safe. Later, a prolonged debate about Cook’s mental state plays out: The same man who suggested seeing a movie to his hostages also shot animals to wield power over them (“Killing just to kill”). Parsing whether Cook was mentally ill isn’t simple, and some find it beside the point, as Kukla suggests; one of Cook’s pursuers reminds himself that when pure evil surfaces, putting it down is the only option: “He had to be a driving force to bring it to an end.” The title is a clever allusion to the 1971 song of the same name by The Doors, whose second verse drew inspiration from Cook’s atrocities. Kukla’s crisp, no-nonsense storytelling will allow readers to debate the issues the case raised, particularly in how it highlights 1950s American society’s well-scrubbed exterior, and the embittered entitlement at the heart of Cook’s killing spree. The killer’s notoriety has long faded, yet this novel serves as an effective reminder that the questions surrounding his motivations are no less persistent—and no easier to answer.

A bunny named Peanut Butter and Donner, a parakeet, can sense that their duck friend, Annie, isn’t her upbeat self. “Are you okay Annie?” Peanut Butter asks. Annie sighs, eyes downcast, and reveals that someone she loves is gone. Her friends don’t offer hollow cheerfulness or quick fixes. Instead, Peanut Butter “sat down beside her, and gave her some time.” Through shared memories, quiet company, and gentle love, they learn that “it’s okay to laugh and have fun. And it’s okay to cry when the tears start to run.” Healing unfolds slowly, and “however you grieve is right just for you.” The text also acknowledges that feelings of loss can be felt about other things, such as upheaval due to natural disasters, disrupted routines, or sudden goodbyes. The empathetic focus effectively honors varying emotional responses and the importance of being present with someone who’s in pain. The friendly, rounded artwork radiates warmth and comfort, with bright colors adding movement and energy, reminiscent of a mobile gently spinning above a crib. Although the backgrounds sometimes fade into a vague haze that doesn’t reward multiple readings, the simplicity keeps the spotlight on the characters’ emotional journeys.

This look at the dominant mid-2000s USC football program succeeds on multiple fronts, coupling multifaceted character studies with memorable tales of excess, dysfunction, and controversy. Center stage is Pete Carroll, who coached the Trojans to consecutive national championships. His players call him a “psychological ninja” and “a big-ass kid.” Per the author’s diligent reporting, both characterizations fit. Burke depicts a football lifer who rejects the industry-standard “authoritarian” model. Carroll’s approach, informed by applied psychology ideas that emerged in the 1960s, foregrounds fun. More than once, we see him try to keep practice loose by staging “morbid” pranks simulating untimely deaths. After mediocre coaching stints in the NFL, Carroll’s USC winning percentage topped 83%. The staff’s “good cop,” he employs full-throttle assistants. One strips naked during a pep talk; another tackles a curfew-breaking player in a hotel. Burke presents a rounded portrait of Carroll, who has since returned to pro ball. A prominent former player describes the coach as “sneaky,” and some of Burke’s other sources say Carroll’s oversight was too lax. Burke’s reporting includes an ex-USC athlete’s claim that he supplied steroids to players and glimpses of hard-partying Trojan stars. Burke wrings an impressive amount of drama from accounts of old ballgames, including one considered among the best-ever college tilts. He has an occasional tin ear, however, casually describing rape allegations against L.A. Lakers legend Kobe Bryant as “an icky scandal.” The Trojans’ accomplishments were tarnished when the NCAA levied stiff penalties after finding that a star player accepted cash and other prohibited compensation. Since-adopted rules permit college athletes to earn money, and to the delight of its many critics, the NCAA’s commitment to “false amateurism” backfired, Burke correctly notes, rendering it largely “powerless.”