The mouse who narrates this tale seems cautiously intrigued when a human parent and child (both of whom present white) move into a house where the rodents have been living under the floorboards. But the other mice are alarmed; after all, they’ve all heard Uncle Rupert’s tales. People “are three THOUSAND times bigger than we are,” they “make us run in wheels for their own entertainment,” and they have “brightly colored fur” (this last is paired with a fresh and contemporary image depicting a trio of kids with hair dyed different hues). We follow the mice as they sneak out at night to explore the contents of the moving boxes, making a mess. The next day, the child sets a glass jar over a hole in the floorboard and catches the narrator. Initially scared, the rodents come to the protagonist’s rescue and soon discover the child’s benevolent purpose: building a “Mouse Land” from the emptied boxes. Just as the mice are about to celebrate, a menacing-looking housecat shows up, sending the rodents scurrying, nixing the possibility of cross-species friendship, and bringing the tale to an abrupt end. Mixed-media illustrations recalling the artwork from Emily Arnold McCully’s mouse books set a cozy tone, while effective use of composition and layout differentiate the human and rodent realms. The narrator’s exuberant voice, marked by enthusiastic asides, is endearing, and images of the mice romping will enchant even the most rodent-averse.

How does a person survive a trauma-filled childhood to rise to the top of a scientific field?As a child to neglectful, drug-addicted parents, Sussillo writes that he did most of his growing up in group homes, where he learned to survive amid stern houseparents and abusive housemates. Luckily for him, he found joy in arcade and computer games, which soon offered him opportunities to understand the inner workings of computer programs. “Computers made you like an army general or master chef,” he writes. “You gave the PC carefully written recipes, and it executed those recipes faithfully and without complaint, forever and ever.” In adolescence, he became enthralled with things he learned about from popular science magazines and television shows, ideas that further fed his intellectual curiosity. His story ping-pongs from the many terrible role models in his life to the occasional angels—friends, relatives, and teachers—who show Sussillo how friendship, love, and shared interests can make life worthwhile. The author sprinkles in well-written and engaging asides on scientific topics that fascinated him as a youth, such as physics, coding, and neuroscience, and that foreshadow his career path, which centers on understanding complex systems. His smarts and inquisitiveness certainly served him well, and he also credits years of psychoanalysis as a key factor in becoming the person he is today. Sussillo is clear-eyed about how his tumultuous past gave him a unique perspective on the world. He writes, “The very chaos that had once seemed like an insurmountable obstacle could be a source of strength, resilience, and especially creativity.”

Writing in first person from the point of view of light itself (“I spin the wheel of life”), Herz compares his subject to a rolling marble and an ocean wave. With nods to X-rays, radio waves, and other forms of “traveling energy,” he describes the topic first in simple terms and then in greater detail in a follow-up section. Light illuminates everything earthly and astronomical. Moreover, Herz goes on, light has been long cherished as a symbol of a “guiding presence,” glowing atop candles and in places of worship as a reminder “that there is something greater out there.” Using long-exposure photo shoots, López once more finds an inspired way to depict the physical phenomena that the author personifies in his two-tiered explanatory narratives. Her artwork has impressionistic elements, depicting a pair of tan-skinned children and a sometimes-animate plush bunny as they celebrate sunbeams and a rainbow, gaze into mirrors, swish in a pool to show how light bends in water, and point to the nighttime sky. Despite a bit of poetic license in the claim that all living things depend on light (since there are some dark-dwelling creatures that don’t), this eloquent, elegant testimonial offers much to engage heads as well as hearts. “Until the stars dim, I show the way. I AM LIGHT.”

Raised by her father in Silverpine, Oregon, after her mother moved halfway across the world, Dani’s separation anxiety ran deep long before Parker ghosted her, so when she runs headfirst into him at a bar in New York City, she promptly runs out rather than reopen a door for the former best friend who’d loved and abandoned her. She had been just “six when…Mom packed up her easel and art supplies and flew back to Taiwan.” Losing Parker—the friend with whom she’d felt an “immediate spark—a seamless connection between two seven-year-olds, as if they’d known one another in a past life”—that might have been even harder. It made Dani harder too. Dani and Parker had been connected for 13 years, from elementary school through college on opposite coasts (Parker got a scholarship to play football at Oregon while Dani pursued her writing dreams at Columbia), until Parker’s no-show on Christmas Eve opened a wound that wouldn’t heal. But now, when Dani finds herself drawn to Parker against most of her instincts for self-preservation, she doesn’t begin an extended game of cat-and-mouse. Parker may be a former star athlete turned sports-marketing wunderkind and Dani a nerdy writer who lives inside her head, but it’s Dani who has the agency to grab Parker by the lapels and take what she’s long wanted. And when they rekindle the friendship, this time with plenty of steam, it’s drawn in artful detail, and both the chemistry and banter are fire.

Aya awakens, steps out of her hut, and sits by the campfire with her grandparents for breakfast. It’s a special day. Today, Grandpa will take Aya into the forest to see a bear—a first for her. They mount their horses and make their way through the woods, keenly aware of indicators of the shifting seasons, among them the changing colors of leaves and birds flying south for the winter. As Grandpa and Aya reach the top of a hill, they take their places and wait…and wait. Eventually a mother bear and her three cubs appear and curl up to take a nap on an old, abandoned mattress surrounded by trash. After the bears leave, Aya and her grandfather burn the garbage to discourage the animals’ dependence on humans—an example of environmental stewardship in action. Warm, softly blended colors create detailed portraits of Aya, her grandfather, and the various animals they encounter. Blackcrane’s gentle, appealingly straightforward narration sets a steady pace that reflects the story’s theme of patience. Backmatter offers more information on the Oroqen, an ethnic group that resides in the forests and mountains of northern China.