Encompassing works published from 1975 to 2013, this collection by Murguía reflects a flinty but compassionate sensibility, focused on people struggling on society’s lower rungs, especially in the Bay Area. The title story exemplifies the approach, narrated by a San Francisco building inspector investigating a fatal Mission District fire; the story encompasses the narrator’s personal heartache, a gentrifying community, and civic corruption in sharp, noirish language. (“The other barrio” is a euphemism for death.) The settings may vary—the Mexican film industry in “Boy on a Wooden Horse,” a Day of the Dead festival in “Ofrendas,” a Half Moon Bay dive bar in “El Último Round”—but the mood is typically dark, focused on the narrators’ past losses, usually romantic ones. A number of the pieces are short, little more than sketches, but when Murguía uses a wider canvas, he reveals some winning hard-luck characters: The narrator of “A Toda Máquina” has been working to stay sober, but a chance encounter with a woman at a Sacramento, California, convenience store sets him unraveling. These characters are at once shaped and undone by old-fashioned masculinity, from the hard-edged young men in “Winnemucca Barbershop” to the veteran dance instructor in “A Lesson in Merengue.” The sad-sack men can get repetitively gloomy (“If women are a puzzle, this one had a thousand mismatched pieces,” the “Máquina” narrator laments), but there are some welcome outliers: “Bye-Bye Vallarta,” about a woman changing her life’s direction while on a trip to Mexico; “A Subtle Plague,” a kind of ghost story about gentrification; and the sinuous closing prose-poem, “A Sentence,” interweaving details of Latin American folklore and history with references to the lust and heartbreak that drive the author’s work.

In current-day Barcelona, Spain, Mitch Rapp just wants to spend time with his girlfriend, Greta Ohlmeyer, who knows he’s a killer for the CIA. Greta’s grandfather is a prominent banker who has connections with interim CIA Director Thomas Stansfield. But someone is threatening all the Ohlmeyers, and Mitch will do anything to protect Greta. His fans already know what impressive talents he has: He’s fluent in French, Arabic, and Italian, and he speaks passable Persian. More germane to the story, he’s abundantly capable of speed and violence. His most fearsome weapon is his mind, according to the narrator, but the former traits are what draw the blood. Rapp says he’s not a killer for hire, but he surely can dispatch the bad guys. Indeed, “once Rapp decided to kill someone, very few people could change his mind.” His CIA handler sends him to Moscow to help prevent a war between Russia and Latvia, because the job requires his—ahem—nondiplomatic skills. Unsettled scores drive the story from the beginning, when in 1945 Stansfield kills a patrol of Soviets who are trying to claim 100 tons of German uranium oxide. But one Soviet survives, and decades later Stansfield, now in the CIA, may yet suffer retribution. And Rapp, the CIA’s most talented off-the-books assassin, also dishes out some personal payback. Of course it can’t be easy. Only a fool would willingly enter Lubyanka in Moscow, the intelligence service’s headquarters, because it’s like sneaking into hell. The local joke is that Lubyanka is Russia’s tallest building because you can see Siberia from the prison cells in its basement. Not knowing if he will come out alive, Rapp goes after a target there and is treated to a rambunctious elevator ride. Imagine being in a confined space with a mortal enemy just as tough as you are—what fun!

It’s Bread Day, and Nara and Papa set about feeding their sourdough starter, affectionately named Paolo. “One bubble. Two bubbles. Soon, Paolo fill[s] his jar with bubbles.” Expressive cartoons are rendered with a soft pastel palette and peppered with charming details as Nara and Papa knead the dough; finally, Papa scores the loaf, replicating a crayon drawing from Nara. But the gentle narrative takes a melancholy, somewhat abrupt turn when Bread Day rolls around again. Papa’s not here, and Mama tells Nara that they won’t be baking bread. Nara sadly places Paolo in the fridge. Cool grays and blues are deftly incorporated into the scenery as Nara struggles with grief; though Chung never states what has happened to Papa, it’s heavily implied that he’s died. The kitchen is now too clean and tidy, sharpening Nara’s pain. Eventually, she takes action, pulling out the ingredients and covering the cabinet doors with her father’s notes and her drawings. Mama’s there to offer a hug when Nara becomes distraught, believing that Paolo has gone, too. But as Paolo revives, so do Nara’s memories of her father. This delectable tale concludes with mother and child enjoying a warm loaf; a touching author’s note closes out the work. Nara and her family read East Asian.

Clad in a black frock smattered with silver stars and black pointy boots on four of her six appendages, Frida the moth loves to rock out on her purple guitar. Her Auntie Edna is her biggest fan. “Rock on Frida!” cheers Edna, “You shine exactly as you are!” But, sadly, there’s no one else around who makes music. It is a lonely hobby. Until one night, the “Big Bright Light” is turned on. Moths from all over flock to the bulb and start playing music. Frida is excited, but the moths look and sound different from her. She feels that she doesn’t fit in. She decides to change everything about herself—even her purple guitar. After a winding journey of self-discovery, Frida learns to be true to herself (with a little help from Auntie Edna). Hillyard has infused the art with tiny details—look closely at Frida’s room decor—building the flow with both paneled art and full-page spreads. Wavy ribbons of color waft from Frida’s guitar; then, when her musical style changes, jagged bursts (and snakes!) slice through the pages. The narrative has a mostly all-insect crew, but a few human hands are seen with diverse skin tones.

Nearly a year after the death of Sam, his best friend and secret crush, Oliver, a gay first-year college student, sends Sam one final text—only to receive a reply from the stranger who now has Sam’s old number. What begins as an accidental exchange evolves into a warm and unexpected connection, told in self-reflective first-person prose interspersed with text conversations. The prose blends dreamy flashbacks with present-day scenes showing Oliver’s loneliness, juxtaposing vivid memories of love unspoken with the tentative beginning of something new. The scenes move fluidly across time, showing prom, Halloween, a spring bonfire, and quiet cafe moments, all of which underscore the intensity of Oliver’s love and longing, while his banter-filled messages and blossoming rapport with the stranger he’s texting with offer glimmers of healing. His grief is messy and nonlinear, and the story doesn’t rush his recovery. Thao’s writing is intimate and vulnerable, balancing humor and heartbreak with emotional honesty. Touchstones like white roses, playlists, and quiet nights on campus recur throughout, grounding Oliver’s journey in sensory detail. This poignant story offers a nuanced depiction of grieving and embracing romantic possibilities. In the earlier book, Oliver presented white, and Sam was cued Japanese American.