A series of earthquakes exposes the fault lines in a teenager’s unconventional life in a powerful crossover novel that explores raw emotion with wit and warmth. After the deadly 2011 earthquakes in Christ Church, New Zealand, Eddy Smallbone must navigate the ruins of his hometown along with the ruins of his personal life. A Catholic-school dropout itching to break free of the eccentric uncle who raised him and newly mourning the death of his dog, Eddy starts his own dog-walking and pet-sitting business. Through his work, he meets and cares for an extraordinary cast of characters, including a precocious seven-year-old girl and a nun and her unruly parrot. Meanwhile, Eddy’s former girlfriend, Boo, is back, and their relationship fraught, to say the least. And his best friend, Thomas Moore, who lives in a cabin behind his parents’ house, is suffering from a mysterious and devastating illness. Layered and resonant, intellectually rigorous, and as soothing as it is shocking, this sophisticated literary novel for mature teens plumbs the depths of trauma and healing. With its sensitive take on important issues—including grief and faith, unplanned pregnancy, and mental illness and self-harm—Eddy’s story will speak volumes to adult readers also. A New Zealand boy reckons with his past and his present. . . an often sweet and sometimes humorous exploration of love, mental health, family, faith, grief, and the past. This sophisticated story weaves in and out of the present day, allowing for a full perspective on Eddy—with occasional commentary from Boo herself—as he juggles reality, responsibility, and hope. . . . A soulfully layered story told with wit and care. —Kirkus Reviews (starred review) From New Zealand comes this remarkable novel, the story of 19-year-old Eddy navigating life after the 2011 Christchurch earthquake upends him. . . . Character-driven and highly sophisticated, this literary novel follows these relationships with psychological acuity. The novel is beautifully written, filled with memorable phrases and observations. . . Older teens who enjoy artful, serious fiction will dote on this superb effort, as will adults, since this is a quintessential crossover novel. —Booklist (starred review) Kate De Goldi is the author of numerous short stories, collections, and novels for adults and children, including the much-lauded The 10 P.M. Question . She lives in New Zealand. September   1 “Marley was dead: to begin with. There was no doubt whatsoever about that.”    Eddy’s uncle got to the immortal words first. It was a quotation begging to be said that day. One of them had to say it, Eddy supposed. Brain grabbed the moment.    Funny, really, since Brain was a slow thinker and mover most of the time. But he spoke the second they settled into the car. Then he shut the passenger door softly — ​a full stop. Brain did most things carefully, even delicately. This sometimes made Eddy itch.    Maybe he’d been waiting years to say it. Maybe, all that time ago, he’d named Marley just so he could say the line when Marley died. Only now he said it wrong.   “No doubt whatever,” said Eddy. Really, for a research librarian, Brain could be surprisingly imprecise. He often fluffed song lyrics and quotes. “No ‘so.’”    “Are you sure?”    “Positive.”    Brain looked at Eddy: his baffled--animal look, the raccoon eyebrows bending inward. He seemed to be staring at Eddy’s forehead as if trying to make out the words etched there or something, proof.  “Marley was dead:” Eddy paused.    “Colon,” said Brain, with a wan smile.  “Marley was dead colon: to begin with. There was no doubt whatever about that.”    There really wasn’t any doubt. Marley was in the back seat, head resting on her old pillow with its stains and holes and sprouting kapok.    She was wrapped in the Kaiapoi Pure Wool blanket. The blanket was Eddy’s sole inheritance from his unknown maternal grandmother. He’d donated it to Marley when she was a pup, and it had been her bed rug for as long as anyone could remember. It was all felted from years of washing, spattered with ragged holes from Marley’s unclipped claws. She liked to rough up the rug before she slept; she pawed at it, bunched it into little hillocks, then thumped down onto it, exhaling noisily, her long nose between front paws.    “Memories of snow,” Brain told Eddy all those years ago. “The reptilian brain remembering Labrador — ​you know, all the snow, how they paw into the snow for warmth.    “Labrador. Where Labs come from,” said Brain unnecessarily. Every moment a teaching moment. Labrador habits. Dreamtime lore. The Jesuits’ misdeeds in China. Lines of poetry — ​misquoted probably, now that Eddy thought about it. The arguments for and against veganism. The meaning of thanatology . . . It had been all right when he was young, Eddy supposed. He couldn’t stand it these days.    Marley’s old rug would go with her now, into the ground beneath the wattle tree in the backyard, where sh