Bourdain, notes editor Witherspoon, “had wanted to be a writer all his life.” His fame as the host of several television travel series, she adds, was accidental: The gigs were someone else’s idea, but as long as he got to write, it was fine. Some of the pieces assembled here are near-transcripts from those shows, and longtime fans will hear Bourdain’s voice in every word, as when he eats a street taco in the Mexican city of Puebla: “You quickly shove one of the tacos into your mouth, wash it down with a big pull from a can of cold Tecate—which you’ve previously rubbed with lime and jammed into a plate of salt, encrusting the top—and you can feel your eyes roll up into your head.” Elsewhere, alcohol being a constant, Bourdain celebrates a Sardinian wine made by “an old man sitting in the corner reading a soccer magazine, a cigarette dangling from his lips,” and declaring that he wouldn’t trade a trunkful of big-ticket vintages for the rustic red; offers lessons on how to drink vodka in Russia (“knock back your entire shot in one gulp”); and populates his fictions with woozy, boozy characters (“Naturally, work like this required alcohol”). There are other drugs aplenty as well, befitting Bourdain’s longtime worship of Hunter S. Thompson and the culture of restaurant work in the golden 1970s and ’80s: “We thought ourselves dangerous, trend-settingly debauched, and, of course, in no time at all, had made a serious botch of it all.” But whatever his topic, absent a few forgettable pieces of juvenilia, Bourdain delivers whip-smart, mot juste, and funny pronouncements on the world. And never mind that he condones putting ketchup on a hamburger.

During the dinner date they’re finally going out on, Chicago area therapist Gwendolyn Lord shares with English professor Cameron Winter a story she’s just heard from forensic psychologist Livy Swain, an old school friend, of an impossible crime. Owen McKay, arrested six months ago for killing his wife and son and crying, “It’s still there! Still there!,” was shot to death with a nail gun inside his closely watched prison cell. Though his initial reaction is idle curiosity, Winter resolves to show off his prowess to Gwendolyn by solving the mystery. Dr. Billy Whitefield, the pathologist who conducted the postmortem on McKay, shares with Winter a monstrous revelation that he’s been blackmailed into concealing: He removed a spidery attachment from McKay’s brain whose existence was deleted from the official report. After a friend at his college links the implant to Thaumatix—a company whose motto is “We’re in the business of miracles”—Winter learns of another case that sounds eerily similar: the kidnapping, rape, and murder of a Connecticut high school student by a previously inoffensive carpenter who’s killed before Winter can question him. Surrounded by assassins and amoral corporate overlords, Winter leans more and more into his relationship with Gwendolyn, though the person he most wants to talk to is the Recruiter, the nameless boss he trusted to make life-or-death decisions when he worked as a contract killer. Miraculously, the Recruiter, who’s vanished, returns to Winter’s life. But what if he can’t be trusted any more than everyone else?

When Santa Monica therapist Sarah Newcomb hypnotizes her patients, most of them remember past lives, decades or centuries ago. Not Marigold Chu. The young software engineer is a receptive patient, but under hypnosis, she describes another life that seems to be in the future—or even the present. That leads to two problems. One is information from Marigold’s other self about a coming industrial explosion, which Sarah feels compelled to report (anonymously) to the authorities. The other is the realization that, instead of being a garden-variety case of reincarnation, Marigold is somehow sharing a soul with a very much alive middle-aged Denver police detective named Brian Huntley. Those two issues soon bring an FBI agent to Sarah’s door: Grant Lukather from the agency’s Predictive Analytics unit. As the trio tries to figure out what’s going on, it quickly becomes clear that Brian is in jeopardy from a serial murderer nicknamed the Ash Killer, because of a substance he smears on his victims’ foreheads—an ash whose source police forensics can’t identify. Even stranger, the man identified as the Ash Killer is already in prison. Sarah, Marigold, and Grant dash off from California to Colorado to save Brian, sparks flying—Sarah is sort-of engaged to a good-enough boyfriend, Grant reeling from a tragic romantic loss, but it doesn’t take a clairvoyant to see they’re falling for each other. The book, the first novel by an Oscar-nominated screenwriter, does little to explain the phenomenon of Marigold and Brian’s tie other than some sketchy ideas about the exploding human population outrunning the supply of souls, but it’s used to good effect in relation to the Ash Killer. Sarah and Grant toss pretty much every protocol about how therapists and law enforcement officers are supposed to behave right out the window; if you’re willing to suspend disbelief about that and communal souls, this is a suspenseful and fast-paced tale.

Nana no longer knows how to braid challah for Shabbat, and she no longer dances with her grandchild, Sarah, the way they used to. Distressed, Sarah seeks ways to release Nana from the grip of the Memory Thief. With love and compassion, Sarah tries to lift the curtain on the memories stolen from Nana and help her rediscover the magic of dancing on the stage. After grabbing Nana’s cell phone and playing music from Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake, Sarah reaches through the past to reconnect Nana to her days as a ballerina. Nana leaves her present difficulties behind and once again soars in the spotlight as she rediscovers her love for ballet. The book is gracefully infused with Jewish concepts and traditions: Nana tells Sarah that they are “braided together, just like challah,” the two of them dance like the “flickering flames on a Hanukkah menorah,” and when Nana can’t find the right words, Sarah suggests that they’re hiding, “like the afikoman at Passover.” Lewkowicz’s gentle and evocative text shimmers with the language and symbolism of ballet, while Garland’s sweeping strokes and bold colors effectively show the contrast between Nana’s former triumphs and her new reality. Nana and Sarah are light-skinned.

Fervor fuels this impressionistic celebration of basketball’s greatest performers. Serrano, the author of bestsellers about sports and pop culture, sticks with what’s made him successful, peppering this collection of essays about LeBron James, A’ja Wilson, and others with go-for-broke adjectives and references to rappers and action movies. You might not agree that Kobe Bryant’s final game was “monumental” or that the Golden State Warriors’ record 73 wins was a “godly” achievement, but Serrano is irresistibly passionate, a fan-writer who greets each game as a chance to be awed. Its title notwithstanding, this effervescent book isn’t about player contracts or billion-dollar revenue streams. To the author, “expensive” is synonymous with virtuosity. Ray Allen’s textbook jump shot was expensive. Though Serrano quotes William Carlos Williams in a chapter about WNBA all-timer Sue Bird, he’s more apt to cite blockbuster films, prestige TV, and hip-hop. Often, this works nicely. His inspired paean to Giannis Antetokounmpo is probably the first time that a streaky free-throw shooter has been likened to “cool-as-fuck” Helen Mirren’s unlikely appearance in The Fate of the Furious. Conversely, Serrano’s long list of memorable rap lyrics adds little to his Stephen Curry chapter. The author is appealingly self-effacing—a footnote calls attention to his “dorkiest” sentence—and watchful for manifestations of unbridled athletic joy, like the gleeful “little jump-skip thing” Dwyane Wade did after tossing an alley-oop pass. His support of the WNBA is just as strong as his love of the men’s game. DeWanna Bonner, Brittney Griner, and Diana Taurasi “are sledgehammers covered in scorpions.” Wilson “is a goddamn basketball obliteration monster.” Serrano is great at exploring how fans’ memories of their favorite players intermingle with important events from their lives. That’s the subject of his affable chapter about former San Antonio Spur Tim Duncan.