Excerpt from A Country You Can Leave by Asale Angel-Ajani, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

That's the thing about her. Her powers of seduction specialize in lonely, sexually frustrated men, and Papa Bear fits the bill. In my mother, he sees a drinking partner, hot sex, the chance to introduce her as his "old lady."

Papa Bear has no idea.

He blathers panicky explanations about the trailer, like he needs to change her mind. "You know, the former tenants had to beat a hasty retreat."

A hasty retreat. Our calling card, my mother and I. In those Hefty bags filled with whatever junk didn't make the cut in the rush to get out before the cops or Immigration or a murderous ex broke the door down, I imagine lie rotting artifacts from a taxonomy of restless belonging. A yearbook from the school three moves ago. A green dress bought and never worn for a party whose invitation never arrived. A salvaged mirror, cracked but still pretty. A letter with a father's last known address.

And if those bags aren't an ominous sign, the boy directly across the street, nine or ten years old, is. He's sitting on the curb with his bike thrown on the ground behind him. His white hair is a perfect polished tooth next to his shabby, yellowed mobile home. He's disconcerting, this boy. It's like his face is out of place here in the desert. The freckles, the bright white hair, the upturned nose of privilege, and the astute blue eyes all belong to a clean-cut Caucasian kid in a cereal commercial. But from the neck down there are signs of neglect. Dirty ripped clothing, bloodied knuckles, filthy bare feet. He's throwing rocks in the middle of the road, tracking us: me, Papa Bear, my mother. When he catches me looking, he freezes. Then he thrusts his middle finger in the air.

Caught off guard, I stammer, "That … that kid."

"Oh yeah," Papa Bear says, turning to give the kid a quick wave. "That's Brody. He's alright."

"Yeah, well, he just flipped us off."

"Don't make an elephant out of a fly." A standard Yevgenia idiom. She stamps out her second cigarette.

"But he's an asshole," I say, hating the whining tone in my voice but unable to rein it in.

My mother sighs. She turns to Brody. "Hey, asshole."

His blue eyes turn toward her and she flips him off. His mouth twists into a sneer and he laughs, high-pitched and phony.

She brushes her hands on her jean skirt, turning to me. "Better now?"

"Much." There is more to say. There always is between my mother and me.

Her jaw clenches, communicating. Don't screw this up.

I shrug her off with an eye roll.

Her eyes lock onto Papa Bear, who seems uncomfortable. Stepping a little closer to him, she starts her negotiation boldly. "One hundred fifty a week."

Papa Bear shakes his head. "No can do. Two hundred forty cash and it's already a huge discount."

"Two hundred, cash. Best and last." Yevgenia's brows are thin, uneven arches, making her look fierce and slightly psychotic. She jams her hand in her purse and pulls out her ring of keys. She's ready to leave if she has to.

Papa Bear's hand trembles slightly as he rubs his chin. He is trying to figure out if she means it. Yevgenia shifts her weight to one leg, arms crossing under her breasts. The round flesh of her boobs pours out from her shirt. It's a beckoning. I've seen her practice this move in countless bathroom mirrors, been a witness to its effects on gas station attendants and motel clerks. The pit of my stomach burns. I look over at the kid across the street. I am neither religious nor superstitious, but I throw myself at the feet of whatever higher power is out there. Please. Not the fucking Oasis. I can't live in this penal colony. This refuge for losers. Across the street, the blond kid picks his nose, balling up his boogers between his fingers. Fucking gross. This is all my mother's fault. Before California was Nevada and Utah and Colorado and Texas. But before all of that was Mexico, a place I was learning to call home, and she took that away from me. And I'm pissed. Now here we are, at what feels like our last chance. Because it's not hard to miss that the Oasis is just a pit stop on the way to the bottom.

Excerpted from A Country You Can Leave by Asale Angel-Ajani. Copyright © 2023 by Asale Angel-Ajani. Excerpted by permission of MCD. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.