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.

Opening during the spring of 2020, this book refracts the early days of the pandemic with the acuity of a laser, not unlike Straight’s previous novel, Mecca (2022). But if this is the situation of the narrative, its story is the complexity of love and longing, the edgy insistence of the human heart. Straight begins by focusing on three Covid nurses—Cherrise, Larette, and Marisol—who for the safety of their families have been moved to a small trailer park erected near the hospital where they work in the ICU. “They say we’re gonna get it under control. I’ll be back to get you in August,” Cherrise tells her 15-year-old daughter, Raquel, after leaving her with relatives. And yet, it is impossible to read this exchange without recalling the fear and trembling of that moment, in which time felt as if it had lost its shape. Straight makes this idea explicit by reintroducing Highway Patrol officer Johnny Frias, a major character in Mecca, who comes to play a significant role in this new work after Raquel disappears. Don’t be misled, though: This is no mere sequel, but what we might imagine as a parallel text, an adjacent set of stories taking place in a world where linearity, chronology, have become words from a different lexicon. This simultaneity makes the relationship between the novels nuanced and compelling, a broadening rather than a lengthening. It’s an astonishing move, one that feels true both to the moment of the action and the moment in which we are reading, the aftermath of a crisis, or a series of crises, that has not fully gone away.

Newman begins her latest with a quote from Nora Ephron: “Death is a sniper. It strikes people you love, people you like, people you know—it’s everywhere. You could be next. But then you turn out not to be. But then again, you could be.” It sets an appropriate tone for a story that is just as full of death and dread as it is laughter. Two years after the events of Sandwich, Rocky is back home in Western Massachusetts and happily surrounded by family—her daughter, Willa, lives with her and her husband, Nick, while applying to Ph.D. programs; her widowed father, Mort, has moved into the in-law apartment behind their house. When a young man who graduated from high school with Rocky’s son, Jamie, is hit by a train, Rocky finds herself spiraling as she thinks about how close the tragedy came to her own family. She’s also freaking out about a mysterious rash her dermatologist can’t explain. Both instances are tailor-made for internet research and stalking. As Rocky obsessively googles her symptoms and finds only bad news (“Here’s what’s true about the Internet: very infrequently do people log on with their good news. Gosh, they don’t write, I had this weird rash on my forearm? And it turned out to be completely nothing!”), she also compulsively checks the Facebook page of the accident victim’s mother. Newman excels at showing how sorrow and joy coexist in everyday life. She masterfully balances a modern exploration of grief with truly laugh-out-loud lines (one passage about the absurdity of collecting a stool sample and delivering it to the doctor stands out). As Rocky deals with the byzantine frustrations of the medical system, she also has to learn, once more, how to see her children, husband, father, and herself as fully flawed and lovable humans.