At the center of the narrative, set in the small town of Wintermere, are Sera Linden and Julian Vero, whose bond is revealed less through dialogue than through silence, shared labor, and gestures that skirt definition. Sera is leading a local revitalization project while Julian is undertaking a personal rebuilding task at the chapel.Their companions along the way—bookshop owner Ruth, coffee shop owner Gwen, cafe worker Jane—bring shades of conflict and communal tension, but the narrative’s truest focus is the slow, nearly devotional attention to the space in which they dwell. St. Avila’s chapel emerges not only as backdrop but as a living presence: damaged, tended, and finally restored without spectacle. Lane weaves recurring objects—a compass, sea glass, ash, wildflowers—into a symbolic range that roots the novel’s abstractions in tactile forms. Lane’s prose is lyrical and deliberate, its rhythm closer to liturgy than to plot-driven fiction: Time blurs, and chapters linger in long stillnesses in which light through a window or a hand touching a wooden doorframe carries emotional weight: “Sera stood at the threshold, one hand brushing the frame, as if needing to feel the grain of it before entering.” The work is not one of dramatic revelations but of placing of a piece of sea glass on a windowsill, or assembling an altar without ceremony. The closing movement shifts outward, showing St. Avila’s as a space that continues on, absorbing offerings from unnamed visitors and rumored to harbor two silent figures at dusk. The effect is elegiac and quietly mythic. However, the risks of such narrative restraint are real; the novel sometimes sags under its own quietude with extended passages of silence and symbolism that risk redundancy. Secondary characters recede in the final chapters, leaving the ending feeling almost too ethereal, with its emotional resonance dependent on readers’ patience with ambiguity; as such, those who might crave sharper dramatic arcs or concrete closure may find frustration.

Chen’s full-color photographs, showcasing the ins and outs of the automotive sports world, span more than 400 pages. Clocking in at over 2,500 individual photos, the book unfolds in reverse chronological order. It comprises four sections, beginning with Chen’s most recent collections—“A People’s Movement” (2020-2024) and “Lens on Fire” (2015-2019)—and working backward to conclude with his first five years in the business—“Laying Groundwork” (2005-2009). Some photographs are full page; many are smaller in size and grouped together in a collage depicting a particular car show or race. Included throughout are brief paragraphs that describe the events behind the photos, Chen’s methods, or suggestions for budding sports photographers (“My number one piece of advice for auto enthusiasts is to get off your comfy sofa and go out and find some cool cars in the wild”). The photos reveal a breathtaking talent for capturing movement, like flames bursting from a car’s hood at the Retro Havoc in Malaysia or a midcrash close-up on a racetrack. With vivid colors, crisp lines, and no shortage of Porsches, he captures the excitement of racing in all its forms and in all parts of the world (labeling the types of cars featured would have been helpful). The Pandem R33 GT-R against the neon lights of Tokyo gives way to the grit-crusted trophy trucks flying through the sand dunes of Baja, California—all while Chen’s eye for light and color combinations delight the reader. The prose that occasionally accompanies the pictures is conversational/unpolished (“This was a show that was on my radar for a while. Until recently it had quite the interesting name: it was called ‘Raceism.’ Although I completely understand that it was an unnecessary name, I still thought it was hilarious”) leaving the main focus (rightly) on the photographs. Part career retrospective, part coffee-table book, the collection is ultimately a remarkable celebration of car culture and sports photography.

Minnesotan Maggie Livingston is an “almost divorced, thirty-something autistic woman who had just moved back down south to rent out her beloved ancestral home to strangers,” and she’s been dealing with one problem after another. First, she hustles the corpse of an elderly guest, who apparently died of natural causes, out of her place to escape the health inspector’s notice; later, it comes to light that old Mr. Trembolt may not have been who he said he was—and may have been the victim of a murder. Meanwhile, her booked wedding party, all former high school classmates, is plagued by numerous disasters over the course of a week, including food poisoning and poison ivy, aggressive yellowjackets, and the discovery of a severed human leg, among other things. In the midst of all this, Maggie—who once underwent fertility treatments—is nervous but hopeful that she may be pregnant, due to an ill-advised hookup with her cheating, soon-to-be-ex-husband, Lance. He tries to lure her back to Minnesota, as does a promotion-offering former employer. Maggie’s also anxious about seeing Alice, her former high school girlfriend, whom she betrayed by sleeping with Lance some 14 years ago. There’s also a blackmail plot, related to a tragic event that occurred during Maggie’s high school days. This colorful, spiraling whodunit effectively combines suspense with tongue-in-cheek absurdity; chapter titles include “Scooby Do or Die” and “What’s a Body Part Between Friends?,” and there are nods to both the 1997 horror film I Know What You Did Last Summer and the TV series Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Readers may find that keeping track of this book’s large squad of characters is challenging, but they’re a believable and attractively diverse bunch of potential suspects. Ultimately, though, this novel has a sweetness to it, with Maggie and her former antagonists coming together in common cause.

Ruttenberg takes a poetic sensibility in this dual narrative of both the life of Joey Ramone (née Jeffrey Ross Hyman) and the birth of punk music itself. Born sick, he grew up to be ungainly, with thick glasses; his Jewish heritage also marked him as an outsider. “Soon enough bullies—UGH! ICK! YUCK! ACHHH!—spotted this thin, clumsy, incredibly tall kid and, with [the] devil’s instinct, smelled difference.” Ramone discovered rock ’n’ roll, yet by the time he was grown, “rock music sounded like it was being made by the parents.” He co-founded the Ramones in 1974, and here the book makes an elegant detour, exploring punk, its origins, and its greater significance. With eloquent wordplay, Ruttenberg gives readers an intimate sense of Joey Ramone’s life and times without ever tipping into fictionalized details or faux dialogue. Even the lack of backmatter (nary a timeline or bibliography in sight) cannot overshadow the frenzied fun on the page. The bold colors and sheer delight of Schreiber’s art make Ramone an appealingly larger-than-life figure, each page vibrating with music and movement. Above all, Ruttenberg underscores the inclusive nature of Ramone’s music; the titular lyrics (from the song “Pinhead”) serve as a rallying cry for outsiders everywhere. Space is left at the end for kids to write their own songs (librarians beware!).

“Today, race and class remain the most reliable predictors of education achievement in America,” writes Viteritti, adding that, 70 years since the Brown v. Board of Education Supreme Court decision, “our public schools continue to be segregated.” A professor of public policy at New York’s Hunter College, the author, whose research has been widely published and cited in Supreme Court decisions, has a long history with both American public schools (serving as a senior adviser to the chancellor of the New York City public school system, among other positions) and working as an advocate for school choice. While promoting his vision for school choice, this book also serves as “an extended acknowledgment and note of gratitude” to the theorists (some of whom he ranks among his close friends) who shaped his ideas on school choice. These include Ron Edmonds (a New York educator known for his advocacy on behalf of Black families), Jack Coons (a prominent lawyer and advocate of choice), Diane Ravitch (a widely published scholar of education history and policy), and Howard Fuller (a Black Power civil rights activist). Viteritti is careful to distinguish himself from the growing conservative choice movement backed by President Donald Trump, which, the author argues, in its narrow support for private and parochial schools, “compounds past injustices.” He is similarly critical of the Democratic Party’s blind defense of public school policies that “sustain failure and confine students of color to underperforming public schools.” Advocating for school choice through the progressive lenses of Edmonds, Coons, Ravitch, Fuller, and a host of grassroots Black activists, Viteritti makes a well-researched case for charter schools that is backed by more than 560 scholarly endnotes. Despite its academic bona fides, this is an accessible work from the perspective of an activist who has long been in the trenches of public education.