Aurora begins to hope that the eccentric doomsday preppers’ mansion could be her forever home, but when the endless rains come, she begins to have doubts. Niko and Jada have BOBs, or “Bug-Out-Backpacks,” stashed in different rooms, and they train Aurora in disaster survival techniques, all while repeatedly moving to higher floors in their home to avoid the rising water. Aurora hopes they’ll take her with them when they finally leave—but one morning, she wakes up alone in the flooded mansion. Violent men break in, but Aurora escapes out a window with her BOB, taking off in a boat. She meets a younger boy, Kota, and the two try to find the rumored safe haven called The Hill. Based on various clues, it might be where Niko and Jada went when they abandoned Aurora. This fast-paced novel with dystopian elements will keep readers invested in its action-packed plot. A reoccurring mystery that’s hinted at throughout the narrative leaves ample room for the sequel that’s sure to be in high demand. Most main characters read white. Pale-skinned Kota, who has “sleek, jet-black hair,” is cued as being of Japanese descent.

As with all human endeavors, the tech industry has seen its fair share of blunders. From minor errors in grammar and punctuation that lead to temporary interruptions in service to massive catastrophes that result in fatal consequences, the author, a veteran “IT guy,” has seen them all. He provides a meticulous postmortem analysis in this volume, scrutinizing the data, hardware, and systems designs that few consider on a daily basis. Korga summarizes the famous, infamous, and forgotten events that have led to data breaches, the losses of billions of dollars, and (in the most extreme cases) deaths. Each section of the book contains a careful explanation of technical terminology and lists of lessons readers can learn from these famously spectacular gaffes. It all boils down to a single axiom: “Systems do not fail because they are poorly built. They fail because they are built by people.” Korga’s accessible analogies and approachable prose open a gateway to understanding for those readers not in the tech industry. His commitment to fostering a growth mindset among engineers and computer scientists makes for a refreshing take on the topic—this book is not about defaming the mistakes of hapless blunderers; it’s about an industry growing, learning, and ensuring that similar catastrophes don’t happen again. Korga encourages mindfulness (while acknowledging the boneheadedness of each mistake) in a witty, engaging manner, but he is sensitive to issues of tone; addressing the serious consequences of some of the events he covers, he writes, “I spent a long time wondering whether stories tied to real trauma should appear in a work that doesn’t shy away from irony, sarcasm, and the occasional silly comparison. In the end, I decided they must—because the lessons they carry are far too valuable to leave out.” The author’s conversational style makes this a relatable read for anyone who’s ever tried to do something and fallen down trying.

In “Room,” an unnamed narrator finds herself locked inside a white room in Vienna, where she has come to finish a book, and becomes increasingly agitated. “Night,” the longest section by far, brings us another unnamed narrator in a room. This woman—a German writer—suffers from insomnia and spends her hours sifting through her own memories, imaginings, and histories, particularly those of women artists in pre–World War I Berlin. These pursuits swallow her present, which appears as a surreal kaleidoscope reflecting an almost painful sensitivity to the world around her. Her only companions are the “nameless woman” she shares the room with—a bizarre, mutable figure—and a neighbor she watches through the window. “Medusas,” told in the third person, follows a group of women and their children on a beach vacation. The women are glued to news of atrocities on their phones, only roused when their children are badly stung by jellyfish. The book closes with “Burials,” a second-person account of a mother and daughter visiting another family near a forest in central Europe. The mother (“you”) enjoys nature, sleeps deeply, and considers the family’s dog, soon to be put down. Later, she asks her friend to bury her up to her neck in soil so she may “lie down inside of the earth, enter the womb.” The narrator of “Night” notes that the artists she studies all suffered from “war, lovelessness, mania,” and the women Friedland fashions are no different. While its rapid shifts between thoughts and scenes can be jarring, this book succeeds in constructing a “lineage,” a “female history” (and thus an alternative and even reparative history) of women suffering through unprecedented times. In addition, Friedland conveys a profound truth: Awareness of this lineage is a heavy burden. When holding the weight of one’s own memories and the memories of the many that have gone, passed through oral storytelling, archives, and even the internet, how could one possibly rest?

Floo Flocky Doo (short for Florence Flockhart Doo-Faye) is an eccentric youngster with a supportive Mommy Doo and a friendly hummingbird pal named Peanut. All seems fine, at first, when Floo rescues a baby squirrel and takes him in as a pet, but mild chaos ensues when she secretly brings the animal along on errands with her mother. The story unfolds in upbeat rhymes, creating an energetic rhythm that’s well suited to read-aloud settings. Floo’s cheerful catchphrase (“Hootie Hoo, Hootie Hoo”) is charming and easily repeatable, creating opportunities for interactive storytelling and reader engagement. Rooney’s cartoon illustrations are appealing and colorful, with a satisfying mix of full-page spreads and smaller-framed scenes that create action-packed montages. The variety keeps the story visually dynamic while also supporting the lively narrative pace. Floo’s misadventures result in little more than a disapproving look from Mommy Doo, so it’s evident the book isn’t meant to emphasize a lesson about mischief. Instead, it prioritizes Floo’s kindness toward animals and her zest for life to offer a quieter takeaway.

Little black housecat Casper has spent many days (and five books in her eponymous series) walking across Africa in an effort to find her way home. In this outing, she is rudely awakened, first by a competitive dung beetle, then by a group of 20 baby ostriches who can’t find their parents. The chicks’ leader, the self-effacing Felicity, asks Casper for her help in getting all 19 of her brothers to a safe haven with their cousins. The cat agrees and the group sets off, but not without turmoil: Poisonous red-headed centipedes almost sting Casper, and she is only spared by the timely intercession of the warthog Wigbert. Wigbert helps guide the group to the ostriches’ family, and Casper chooses to spend extra time with them. Casper isn’t the only interested feline—a cheetah emerges to stalk the flock. Alongside Mzee the tortoise, Casper and company must gather their courage and defend themselves against this common enemy. This early chapter book about self-confidence and cooperation will entice young readers interested in wildlife, whether they’ve read the previous titles in the series or not. The lesson about rejecting labels is cleverly and naturally woven together with animal facts, such as when Felicity worries that she isn’t intelligent because ostriches have small brains. (“‘You have to be pretty smart to know when to ask for help,’ Casper said. ‘It’s not the size of the brain, it’s how you use it.’”) Several pages of informative text and photos are included in the aftermatter, which covers every creature mentioned in the story, no matter how big or small their role. Bose’s bright, doe-eyed illustrations are cute without sacrificing too much realism.