Excerpt from Remarkably Bright Creatures by Shelby Van Pelt, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

Nowadays, the valley floor is a suburban grid. Every couple of years, the county has a big to-do about reworking the road snaking up the hillside. Mary Ann is always writing letters to the council about it. Too steep, she argues, too prone to mudslides.

"Not too steep for us," Tova says, as the hatchback pulls over the crest.

On the other side, a spot of sun glows on the water, squeezing through a crack in the clouds. Then, as if pulled by puppet strings, the crack opens, bathing Puget Sound in clear light.

"Well, how about that," Tova says, flipping down the visor. Squinting, she turns right onto Sound View Drive, which runs along the ridgeline above the water. Toward home.

Sun, at last! Her asters need deadheading, and for weeks the chilly, wet weather, unseasonable even by Pacific Northwest standards, has dampened her enthusiasm for yard work. At the thought of doing something productive, she presses the gas harder. Perhaps she can finish the entire flower bed before supper.

She breezes through the house for a glass of water on her way to the back garden, pausing to press the blinking red button on her answering machine. That machine is perpetually full of nonsense, people trying to sell her stuff, but she always clears out her messages first thing. How can anyone function with a red light blinking in the background?

The first recording is someone soliciting donations. Delete.

The second message is clearly a scam. Who would be foolish enough to call back and give a bank account number? Delete.

The third message is an error. Muffled voices, then a click. A butt dial, as Janice Kim refers to them. A hazard of the ridiculous practice of keeping phones in pockets. Delete.

The fourth message begins with a stretch of silence. Tova's finger is about to punch the delete button when a woman's voice comes on. "Tova Sullivan?" She clears her throat. "This is Maureen Cochran? From the Charter Village Long-Term Care Center?"

Tova's water glass clinks as it hits the counter.

"I'm afraid I have some bad news ..."

With a sharp click, Tova punches the button to hush the machine. She doesn't need to hear any more. It's a message she's been expecting for quite some time.

Her brother, Lars.

Day 1,301 of My Captivity

THIS IS HOW I DO IT.

Near the top of my enclosure, there is a hole in the glass where the pump comes in. There is a gap between the pump housing and the glass, wide enough for me to fit the tip of a tentacle through and unscrew the housing. The pump floats into my tank, exposing a gap. The gap is small. About the width of two or three human fingers.

You will say, But that's tiny! You're too big.

This is true, but I have no trouble shaping my body to pass through. That is the easy part.

I slide down the glass into the pump room behind my tank. Now begins the challenge. The clock is ticking, you might say. Once I am out of my tank, I must resubmerge within eighteen minutes or I will experience The Consequences. Eighteen minutes, I can survive out of water. This fact is nowhere to be found on the plaque by my tank, of course. I have determined this myself.

On the cold concrete floor, I must choose whether to remain in the pump room or breach the door. Each choice has its merits and costs.

If I choose to stay in the pump room, I have easy access to the tanks nearest mine. Unfortunately, these tanks hold limited appeal. The wolf eels are simply not an option, for what should be obvious reasons. Those teeth! The Pacific sea nettle are too spicy; the yellow-bellied ribbon worms are rubbery. The bay-blue mussels are rather uninspired, flavor-wise, and while the sea cucumbers are delicious, I must use willpower. If I take more than a few, I risk calling Terry's attention to my activities.

Excerpted from Remarkably Bright Creatures by Shelby Van Pelt. Copyright © 2022 by Shelby Van Pelt. Excerpted by permission of Ecco. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.