Excerpt from The Dark We Know by Wen-yi Lee, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

I squeeze my fists. "No. "

The song drops away, a mute button suddenly hit. My breath calms. I shove the involuntary memories away, shut out everything except what I need to do: Bury Dad. Finish my portfolio. Get my money. Get out. It's almost unsettling how easily that instinct returns.

People hear lots of things around here; the land is old and hollowed out enough to sing. For some, the mountain songs tell of the coming weather, or where the first flowers will bloom in spring. Some say it's a chorus of witches in places the ginseng doesn't grow. The really upstanding ones will say they hear holy spirits. All I've ever heard is a song that drags up my lies and transgressions from where I'd buried them, reminding me how much I shouldn't be here. Growing up, I had to learn to block it out. I've just slipped after being away for so long, and met the consequences. It's a good reminder that surviving here isn't the same as anywhere else.

Night falls. Mom and Trish bake potatoes that are already sprouting. I pull out clothes for tomorrow's funeral, draw and then throw out a few sketches, and then get into bed. I don't remember it being so small.

Excerpted from The Dark We Know by Wen-yi Lee. Copyright © 2024 by Wen-yi Lee. Excerpted by permission of Zando. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.