toastykitten

Written by Stephen Hong Sohn
Edited by Uttara Rangarajan

On the way home from a longer plane ride, I was worried about not being able to have enough to read, and I sort of didn’t want to start a new book in the middle of a flight, so I brought along a YA series. It ended up being a good idea, because I ended up finishing Natasha Ngan’s Girls of Paper and Fire (Jimmy Patterson, 2018) and getting through part of the second book in the series, which I will review as well. As per usual, let us allow the marketing description do some work for us: “In this richly developed fantasy, Lei is a member of the Paper caste, the lowest and most persecuted class of people in Ikhara. She lives in a remote village with her father, where the decade-old trauma of watching her mother snatched by royal guards for an unknown fate still haunts her. Now, the guards are back and this time it’s Lei they’re after: the girl with the golden eyes whose rumored beauty has piqued the king’s interest. Over weeks of training in the opulent but oppressive palace, Lei and eight other girls learns the skills and charm that befit a king’s consort. There, she does the unthinkable: she falls in love. Her forbidden romance becomes enmeshed with an explosive plot that threatens her world’s entire way of life. Lei, still the wide-eyed country girl at heart, must decide how far she’s willing to go for justice and revenge.”

This description is probably too pithy for the level of world building that is required in Ngan’s work. Again, this one is part of that Asian-inspired high fantasy trend which is absolutely everywhere on the speculative fiction side. In this case, Ngan consistently uses pan-Asian elements, especially forms of dress (things like cheongsams and saris come up consistently) to let us know we’re not too far off from a place like Asia, even though there are of course demons and part-demons around. The power dynamics of this fictional world involve three castes. The highest caste is called the moon caste. These individuals are demons, who are associated with animals; there are bird-looking demons or leopard looking demons, and they have enhanced strength, size, and fighting skills. The middle group is the steel caste, which seem to be human-demon hybrids. The lowest caste is called paper, and therein lies all the humans, many of whom are enslaved to the moon caste. Every year there is a ceremony in which 8 teenage girls are taken to the palace of the demon-king, where they basically are instituted as his concubines. When the novel opens, the ceremony selecting the eight paper girls has already been completed, but a general spies the main character, Lei, and decides to take her, thinking that he can present Lei as a sort of ninth gift for the king. Because of Lei’s beautiful golden eyes, they make an exception and add a ninth girl. This book has a lot of really tough elements to it, the primary of which is the occurrence of sexual assault, given the fact that the girls are forced to be concubines. Ngan is well aware of the heft of this book, and there is a lengthy author’s note at the end of the text, but I would have preferred that note at the beginning, because if you aren’t careful about reading paratexts for this novel, you don’t even know what’s going to happen. I do think that this book might not have been published in this current moment, with such heightened scrutiny over book content. Despite the sensitive content, Ngan’s created a very spirited heroine, one in whom readers of the young adult paranormal romance genre will find much to like, and they will root for her on as she finds a way to best the king and, at the same time, manage to spark a same-sex romance with one of the other individuals selected by the ceremony. Despite the seemingly revolutionary conclusion, it’s clear that Ngan has surprises in store for readers, and that the work of deposing an evil king is far from over.

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Written by Stephen Hong Sohn
Edited by Uttara Rangarajan

Ah, so I’m lucky to have some former students who like to be in sort of informal book clubs! One such engagement leads me to review Amitava Kumar’s Immigrant, Montana (Knopf, 2018). Kumar has published quite a bit, but I’m not sure I have had a chance to review his work until this one, and what a doozy. Autofiction is a complicated, complex beast. Let’s go with the marketing description at this point: “Carrying a single suitcase, Kailash arrives in post-Reagan America from India to attend graduate school. As he begins to settle into American existence, Kailash comes under the indelible influence of a charismatic professor, and also finds his life reshaped by a series of very different women with whom he recklessly falls in and out of love.  Looking back on the formative period of his youth, Kailash’s wry, vivid perception of the world he is in, but never quite of, unfurls in a brilliant melding of anecdote and annotation, picture and text. Building a case for himself, both as a good man in spite of his flaws and as an American in defiance of his place of birth, Kailash weaves a story that is at its core an incandescent investigation of love—despite, beyond, and across dividing lines.”

My former student and I were initially attracted to the title since there isn’t a place called Immigrant, Montana. We did think though that Montana would feature more heavily in this novel, but it doesn’t. This novel is more of the campus genre type, with the text moving through Kailash’s experience in graduate school and the various relationships that he has with women, as he moves through his dissertation writing. Many of the chapters are structured around these relationships. In “Jennifer,” we see how Kailash ends up in what seems to be a casual relationship with a bookstore employee. The relationship eventually gets complicated when Jennifer gets pregnant. She eventually decides to get an abortion, with Kailash not fully understanding that his relative apathy toward Jennifer’s pregnancy serves to suggest that Kailash is not serious enough about their long-term potential. In “Nina,” we see Kailash’s first relationship with someone who is also in graduate school and all the complications that might arise out of that dynamic. Whereas one might have described Kailash as somewhat aloof with Jennifer, the opposite is true with Nina. Kailash struggles to figure out how serious their connection might be, and eventually it becomes apparent that Nina does not seem to be as invested in their romance as Kailash is. With “Cai,” it would seem that Kailash has finally met someone who might be the appropriate match. The problem, as we discover, is that Kailash, has been an unreliable narrator pretty much all along. Kailash, while seemingly being invested in romance, has often had dalliances on the side, and we begin to see the catastrophic emergence of this habit with the way that his connection with Cai ultimately implodes. As someone who has gone to graduate school, I found this particular novel quite difficult to get through just in terms of subject matter. Yet, Kumar finds much richness in the messiness and the sensitivity of these connections, so he makes the most of these campus dynamics. His portrayal of major professors in a given program seems to verge somewhat on hagiography, but that might seem appropriate from the purview of the ways that graduate students tend to put their mentors on pedestals. You might be wondering: what about dissertation writing? Well, Kumar knows as well as anyone else that a novel that covered the trials and tribulations of this process would not be very compelling to read as entertainment, so he generally avoids giving us too much information about this process and for that, we in the know, thank him.

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Written by Stephen Hong Sohn
Edited by Uttara Rangarajan

It’s been a little bit of time since I reviewed anything by S.L. Huang, so it was great to be able to spend the last week reading her high fantasy book The Water Outlaws (Tor, 2023), which is a retelling of the classic Chinese novel Water Margin. Some names are the same; others are changed, and Huang takes the core idea from the earlier text and then remixes it with a lot of speculative elements: “Lin Chong is an expert arms instructor, training the Emperor's soldiers in sword and truncheon, battle axe and spear, lance and crossbow. Unlike bolder friends who flirt with challenging the unequal hierarchies and values of Imperial society, she believes in keeping her head down and doing her job. Until a powerful man with a vendetta rips that carefully-built life away. Disgraced, tattooed as a criminal, and on the run from an Imperial Marshall who will stop at nothing to see her dead, Lin Chong is recruited by the Bandits of Liangshan. Mountain outlaws on the margins of society, the Liangshan Bandits proclaim a belief in justice—for women, for the downtrodden, for progressive thinkers a corrupt Empire would imprison or destroy. They’re also murderers, thieves, smugglers, and cutthroats. Apart, they love like demons and fight like tigers. Together, they could bring down an empire.”

Admittedly, I haven’t read Water Margin, so I don’t know too much about how to read this text as a kind of revision and a reimagining of it, but I did really enjoy it simply on the level of the plot. This novel does have a lot of gore, torture, and death, so the author includes a trigger warning early on, which I felt was more than fair and warranted. What was maddening about this book is the level of corruption and self-interest that motivates powerful governmental officials. The plot gets into motion because Lin Chong, a talented instructor of arms, basically refuses to be sexually assaulted by a high-level bureaucrat named Gao Qiu. Lin Chong is labeled a traitor to the empire under a false claim made by Gao Qiu, and she is originally slated to be executed. A plea by her friend Lu Junyi reduces the sentence, and she will be sent to complete hard labor in a prison camp, but what Lu Junyi doesn’t know is that Gao Qiu is already a step ahead and has planned for the guards who are escorting her to the prison camp to execute Lin Chong before she events get there. Lu Junyi had managed to send Lu Da, a lower-level military fighter to ensure that Lin Chong makes it to the prison camp, and it is Lu Da’s intervention (and the power of something called god’s teeth) that allows Lin Chong to survive that trip. Lin Chong ends up convalescing amongst the ragtag bandits of Liangshan. Back in the Empire, Cai Jiang, another high-level bureaucrat, is focusing on some experiments related to the scholar’s stone, which seems to be a kind of variation of the power that emanates from god’s teeth. Cai Jiang pushes Lu Junyi into this task, and it is Cai Jiang’s quest to harness this power that ends up the biggest source of antagonism for the Liangshan bandits. The Liangshan bandits end up getting into a tussle related to a group of soldiers that Cai Jiang needs to gain more resources, and so Cai Jiang ends up targeting them. The concluding arc sees Cai Jiang essentially use Gao Qiu as a pawn so that he can use the power of god’s teeth to destroy the Liangshan bandits. For their part, the Liangshan bandits put up a great fight, and the final sequence is impressively paced.

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Written by Stephen Hong Sohn
Edited by Uttara Rangarajan

I knew I would eventually review Y-Dang Troeung’s Landbridge (Duke UP, 2024), but I also knew that it was going to be a challenge. Troeung is someone that I crossed paths with in practically another academic life, when I was barely out of graduate school and had the chutzpah to try to get do a bunch of editing (thinking that I would somehow manage all that and write books and articles necessary for tenure). During that period, there were some major strikes of luck. One was the opportunity to co-edit an issue of Modern Fiction Studies with the brilliant, monstrously well-read Paul Lai and then the indefatigable and generous Donald C. Goellnicht. During the editing process, Troeung’s piece on Monique Truong would come to the top of the pile, and her piece would go on to be published in the special issue on Theorizing Asian American Fiction. Goellnicht would pass away unexpectedly around 2019. Goellnicht also happened to have advised Troeung as a graduate student, and then Troeung would pass away in 2022. Fortunately for all of us, Troeung has already left an indelible legacy with an academic monograph (Refugee Lifeworlds) and this creative nonfictional work, which was published posthumously. Let’s let the marketing description do some work for us: “In 1980, Y-Dang Troeung and her family were among the last of the 60,000 refugees from Cambodia that Canada agreed to admit. Their landing was widely documented in newspapers, with photographs of the prime minister shaking Troeung’s father’s hand and patting baby Y-Dang’s head. Troeung became a literal poster child for the benevolence of the Canadian refugee project. She returns to this moment forty years later in her arresting memoir Landbridge, where she explores the tension between that public narrative of happy ‘arrival,’ and the multiple, often hidden truths of what happened to her family. In precise, beautiful prose, Troeung moves back and forth in time to tell stories about her parents and two brothers who lived through the Cambodian genocide, about the lives of her grandparents and extended family, about her own childhood in the refugee camps and in rural Ontario, and eventually about her young son’s illness and her own diagnosis with a terminal disease. Throughout this brilliant and astonishing book, Troeung looks with bracing clarity at refugee existence and dares to imagine a better future, with love.”

This creative nonfictional work is not for the faint of heart. You might have to take some space at times to read it, but I will say immediately that I’m so glad that this work is out in the world, as it adds to the growing and necessary body of Cambodian American cultural productions. There was a time that I really struggled to add Cambodian American literature to my syllabi. At one point, I felt like I basically only had the option of Loung Ung, but these days, the writers in this ethnic subset are truly growing. Landbridge is an anachronistically sequenced work, with short chapters typically around 1-3 pages in length. Troeung toggles through multiple time periods, but there are some major temporal concentration points. There’s of course the sections that deal with her parents’ time during the genocide and their lives as refugees. Then, there’s Troeung growing up in Canada. One of the best recurring motifs is the one about how the family would engage in digging up worms to make extra money. Though this type of activity might seem strange to some, for Troeung, it was always a time of family bonding and community building, and she comes to look back nostalgically on those moments, as evidence of her family’s resilience. Then, there’s the section where Troeung has traveled to Hong Kong, a time of budding romance and a time where she begins to wrestle with the ghosts of her past. The proximity she retains to Cambodia allows her to visit consistently, and she struggles with how to reframe her understanding of the country and to consider its history as one that cannot only be encapsulated by trauma and catastrophic death. Finally, there is her return to Canada and the challenges that come with tenure and then the diagnosis of cancer. Interspersed throughout the work are the most heartbreaking yet crucial sections: letters that Troeung is writing to her young child, some of which are dated into the future. Here, we see Troeung thinking proleptically, archiving this relationship so that there is a record for her child to return to again and again. Despite the gravity of the subject matter, Troeung has the prose of a poet, and the fragmented styling suits this lyric quality. This creative nonfiction of course reminds me more and more of the boundary breaking ways that scholars have been exploring their work and this text can easily be put alongside the many now emerging from academics, such as Anne Anlin Cheng’s Ordinary Disasters and Sarah Chihaya’s Bibliophobia. Let’s hope it’s part of a long and enduring trend. 

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Written by Stephen Hong Sohn
Edited by Uttara Rangarajan

I’ve been meaning to pick up Jen Wang’s Ash’s Cabin (First Second, 2024) for quite some time! I have been a huge fan of Wang’s work since Koko Be Good and have read most of what has come out since then (e.g. Stargazing, The Prince and the Dressmaker). I want to start off by saying I hope I have not made any gendering errors here, as I sometimes automatically revert to a gendered pronoun due to grammatical misfiring in my brain, so please give me some grace! In any case, Ash’s Cabin was the perfect book for me to read at the time. I remember that as I moved further into it, all I could think about was My Side of the Mountain and Hatchet, two books that I loved as a kid. Lo and behold, these two books are cited in a “for further reading” section by Wang, so we obviously read the same things as a kid. Let’s move to that ever-crucial marketing description: “Ash has always felt alone. Adults ignore the climate crisis. Other kids Ash’s age are more interested in pop stars and popularity contests than in fighting for change. Even Ash’s family seems to be sleepwalking through life. The only person who ever seemed to get Ash was their Grandpa Edwin. Before he died, he used to talk about building a secret cabin, deep in the California wilderness. Did he ever build it? What if it’s still there, waiting for him to come back…or for Ash to find it? To Ash, that maybe-mythical cabin is starting to feel like the perfect place for a fresh start and an escape from the miserable feeling of alienation that haunts their daily life. But making the wilds your home isn’t easy. And as much as Ash wants to be alone…can they really be happy alone? Can they survive alone?”

So, Ash ends up deciding to find out if Grandpa Edwin’s secret cabin ever existed, but they have to come up with a plan to get their way up to the area. Fortunately, Ash pushes against their parent’s wishes for vacation plans and instead is allowed to go up to some relatives in that area. Once Ash finds the perfect way to go exploring (which ends up of course creating drama down the line), they go deep into the wilderness with his trusty dog Chase. They eventually find the cabin, but living on one’s own is harder than Ash realizes. All the books they’ve read do not necessarily translate to skills out in the wild. After Ash poisons themself, they have to get help, and Ash eventually finds someone who is also finding their own way. They strike a brief friendship, and this new friend helps Ash refurbish their grandfather’s cabin. Of course, I completely forgot to mention that Ash is ¼ Chinese, as their grandfather was Chinese American! In any case, the friend goes on their way, while Ash continues to live the good life up at the cabin. When a bear attack injures Chase, Ash must make some difficult decisions about what they want to do. After all, by that point, Ash’s family has sent many people out to look for them, and Ash has been avoiding the helicopters that they see overhead. Ash ultimately realizes that they must go back to civilization and give Chase the car that the dog needs. Once back home, Ash begins to discover that they can find their way through a world that is increasingly being sensitive to their pronouns and their journey. In this respect, Ash’s story is one that will resonate with many readers, who to find a path and a life in which their gender is theirs to claim. What I especially appreciated about Wang’s political approach to this trans storyline is that Wang refuses to allow anyone to misgender Ash through deadnaming. Any time Ash’s deadname is used it is blocked out, so we already see how the graphic perspective can enact a form of representational justice. In this era of anti-DEI and book banning, I am worried that a Wang’s graphic novel may not find its readers, but I am so happy that this book is out into the world, especially in this moment and in this time of political violence. These are the kinds of books that can absolutely save lives. At the same time, Wang’s art and story are always first rate, and we should feel lucky that we are in a moment that we can see such brilliant work being produced and shared.

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Written by Stephen Hong Sohn
Edited by Uttara Rangarajan

I haven’t read something in the middle grade arena for awhile, and I was compelled to because Erin Entrada Kelly, a Fil Am writer, just won the Newberry Medal for First State of Being (Greenwillow 2024). I remember I would always consider reading the Newberry Medal winner as a kid, and there are definitely some standouts for me. Growing up, one of my absolute favorites was Dear Mr. Henshaw, and one of my all time favorite novels of any genre, any period, any age group is Madeleine L’engle’s A Wrinkle in Time. It’s the latter book that First State of Being sort of reminds me of. With that teaser in mind, let’s turn to the marketing description: “It's August 1999. For twelve-year-old Michael Rosario, life at Fox Run Apartments in Red Knot, Delaware, is as ordinary as ever—except for the looming Y2K crisis and his overwhelming crush on his sixteen-year-old babysitter, Gibby. But when a disoriented teenage boy named Ridge appears out of nowhere, Michael discovers there is more to life than stockpiling supplies and pining over Gibby. It turns out that Ridge is carefree, confident, and bold, things Michael wishes he could be. Unlike Michael, however, Ridge isn’t where he belongs. When Ridge reveals that he’s the world’s first time traveler, Michael and Gibby are stunned but curious. As Ridge immerses himself in 1999—fascinated by microwaves, basketballs, and malls—Michael discovers that his new friend has a book that outlines the events of the next twenty years, and his curiosity morphs into something else: focused determination. Michael wants—no, needs—to get his hands on that book. How else can he prepare for the future? But how far is he willing to go to get it? A story of time travel, friendship, found family, and first loves, this thematically rich novel is distinguished by its voice, character development, setting, and exploration of the issues that resonate with middle grade readers.”

So, I’m actually going to start with my critiques: I actually wanted way more science fiction! When I think back to L’engle’s novel, she didn’t shy away from the sci-fi aspects of that text, especially when explaining the folds in time and space that allow for travel to distant points to occur (quicker than the speed of light). The second critique I have stems from the ending, so I’ll provide you with my spoiler warning now (as per usual). I’ll assume you looked away or that you’re still reading because you have already read the novel and just want to hear what I have to say about it. The conclusion sees Ridge going back home to his time period, some point way far into the future, but we don’t find out about the outcome of his experiment nor do we know too much about the cultures of the future as envisioned by Kelly. I do think a detailed epilogue or perhaps an appendix of what life in the future is like might have been really interesting. But beyond these quibbles, I can understand why this book received the medal. The ones that win this award have a lot of heart, and this novel has it in spades. It first develops it in the way that Gibby takes care of Michael, even though they live in an area that is not necessarily the most affluent. The relationship that Michael has with his very hard-working mother is also a high point, where we can absolutely see that despite some of the challenges of growing up where he is, he can look up to a mother who understands and prioritizes what is best for him. And then there’s some of the people who live in the same apartment complex: Michael develops some key friendships there that help him transition into being a more sophisticated human being, something that will also enable him to support Ridge, as they all figure out a way for Ridge to return to his time period. It's a heartwarming novel, one that does not shy away from all the challenges that come with growing up as an adolescent in the 1990s. And, I can definitely relate.

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Written by Stephen Hong Sohn
Edited by Uttara Rangarajan

For a very long time, I avoided reading in the doctor-memoir genre. I think part of my hesitation was that it brings up complicated personal feelings given that I gave up a spot in medical school to go after this thing called a doctorate in literary studies. Of late, I’ve been more willing to dive into this genre, certainly in part due to the rise of interest in disability and illness studies, and here I am reviewing Sandeep Jauhar’s My Father’s Brain (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2023). We’ll now move to the marketing description: “A deeply affecting memoir of a father’s descent into dementia, and a revelatory inquiry into why the human brain degenerates with age and what we can do about it. Almost six million Americans—about one in every ten people over the age of sixty-five—have Alzheimer’s disease or a related dementia, and this number is projected to more than double by 2050. What is it like to live with and amid this increasingly prevalent condition, an affliction that some fear more than death? In My Father’s Brain, the distinguished physician and author Sandeep Jauhar sets his father’s struggle with Alzheimer’s alongside his own journey toward understanding this disease and how it might best be coped with, if not cured. In an intimate memoir rich with humor and heartbreak, Jauhar relates how his immigrant father and extended family felt, quarreled, and found their way through the dissolution of a cherished life. Along the way, he lucidly exposes what happens in the brain as we age and our memory falters, and explores everything from ancient conceptions of the mind to the most cutting-edge neurological—and bioethical—research. Throughout, My Father’s Brain confronts the moral and psychological concerns that arise when family members must become caregivers, when children’s and parents’ roles reverse, and when we must accept unforeseen turns in our closest relationships—and in our understanding of what it is to have a self. The result is a work of essential insight into dementia, and into how scientists, caregivers, and all of us in an aging society are reckoning with the fallout.”

 So, at this point, I’ve read a couple of different texts—both nonfictional and not—that deal either with dementia and/or Alzheimer’s. The former term is a broader one that encapsulates various types of degenerative brain diseases, including things like Pick’s Disease (etc.). The caregiving aspect is what will stay with me the most, as Jauhar must constantly work with his siblings to find out what will preserve his father’s quality of life, on the one hand, and while on the other hand the family members try to carve out their own futures. This balance is very difficult, given demanding jobs and the children that each of the siblings must care for. Fortunately, Jauhar’s father has a very enterprising live-in housekeeper named Harwinder, who often engages in the brunt of the day-to-day care work, but even this assistance is often not enough. This description also fails to mention the important fact that Jauhar’s mother passes away from Parkinson’s related issues around the time that Jauhar’s father begins the most precipitous descent into dementia. So, even as the family must grieve, they are simultaneously dealing with the increasing debility of their father, both in mind and body. What is perhaps most disappointing about what Jauhar reveals is how little assistance is given to those who need it most. Dementia-related research and aid pales in comparison to other illnesses, such as cancer. Further still, there are few effective treatments that slow or halt the disease progression, especially once the disease has advanced. In this sense, to write about someone suffering about dementia is to place oneself in the role of the witness, and this aspect is perhaps the clearest form of care and love that Jauhar demonstrates in this work. What I appreciated most was the balance of accessible scientific information that appears alongside the more common conventions of the memoir. In this way, readers are able to get considerable context about the history of dementia and how it has been treated along with the more intimate look that Jauhar generously provides us. One of the most impressive elements of this memoir is Jauhar’s willingness to dive into the occasional fractures that emerge when family members differ in the approach to an ailing loved one’s care. At the end of the day, Jauhar and his siblings understand that they must put the needs of their father front and center, even as they sometimes debate over the course of action. In this spirit of tenderness amid so much heartbreak and volatility, Jauhar’s memoir has much to teach us about the challenges that come with the lengthy journey that is dementia.

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Written by Stephen Hong Sohn
Edited by Uttara Rangarajan

Samantha Sotto Yambao’s Water Moon (Del Rey, 2025) may be one of the first books of fiction that I’m reviewing that was published in 2025. Yes, I’m behind, but so is everyone else who studies and reads Asian American literature because it would literally be a full-time job now to just be on top of the what is coming out LOL. So, for those in the know, Yambao previously published under Samantha Sotto. Long ago, we reviewed her debut, Before Ever After. I’m not sure why there is a change in the publication name, but that’s more of a detail to us. Between Before Ever After and Water Moon, there was an e-only publication called Love and Gravity. This publication was one of the first moments that I had where I was firmly dismayed by the changing landscape of reading because there were things that were only being published in digital form. I still to this day do not understand why there can’t be a print on demand option for anything that is primarily marketed as digital! We analogue kings and queens still demand our material culture. Water Moon came at a time of  really bad insomnia, and I was really happy to have this novel, which really is like some of what the blurbs said, connecting this novel to Spirited Away. Okay, let’s get to that marketing description: “On a backstreet in Tokyo lies a pawnshop, but not everyone can find it. Most will see a cozy ramen restaurant. And only the chosen ones—those who are lost—will find a place to pawn their life choices and deepest regrets. Hana Ishikawa wakes on her first morning as the pawnshop’s new owner to find it ransacked, the shop’s most precious acquisition stolen, and her father missing. And then into the shop stumbles a charming stranger, quite unlike its other customers, for he offers help instead of seeking it. Together, they must journey through a mystical world to find Hana’s father and the stolen choice—by way of rain puddles, rides on paper cranes, the bridge between midnight and morning, and a night market in the clouds. But as they get closer to the truth, Hana must reveal a secret of her own—and risk making a choice that she will never be able to take back.”

This book has a LOT of weird details and weird worldbuilding issues that I didn’t fully understand. For instance, you can travel on rumors or travel through puddles. You can fold paper and thus fold time. You can buy almost anything in this dark shadow world for a price. Choices take the form of birds, which are also souls, and then there are malevolent creatures who want to take these souls because they do not have souls of their own. There are unsouled children who then develop into these malevolent creatures, who seem to be made only of inorganic parts. The description is not entirely accurate I guess, and so I will provide my spoiler warning: have you looked away? If you have not, you will find out that Hana absolutely knows that her father staged the ransacking so that the malevolent overlords of this shadow world do not think Hana is involved and may actually give up on looking for her father. Hana realizes that her father thinks that his wife, Hana’s mother, may still be alive, even though everyone thought she was executed when she failed to deliver a “choice” to those malevolent overlords. Thus, what ensues is really a detective quest. Hana is eventually accompanied by a physicist who happens upon the shop on the same day of the ransacking. The physicist is clearly into Hana romantically, so he’ll pretty much do anything to spend time with her, despite the fact that he’s in a shadow world where physics seem to have no meaning. I’m always the most skeptical about this element of the plot in fantasies only because it seems to stretch credulity—at least to me—that a person will simply go into a dangerous under world without really knowing the stakes of what might befall him. And they are in danger ALL.THE.TIME. But, the true romantics in these readers will love this dynamic duo because they persist in the face of demons, monsters, and everything in-between that might be trying to push them off the path of their quest. Eventually, Hana discovers that her mother is indeed alive, but there is no happy reunion, only knowledge that the world in which she has been born into is structured through various conceits that eliminate the possibility for much free will and agency. The ending was wrapped up a little bit too neatly, and because the worldbuilding rules are so strange, I actually wanted to find out what happened to Hana when she is forced apart from her dashing romantic paramour. And spoiler warning again: they are eventually be reunited but not after a long time apart. On the level of my insomnia, I will say that the novel did its purpose. It helped relax me in a time of great stress and anxiety, and so we sometimes see the salve that fiction can offer, at least in the form of closure.

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