This new cli-fi epic chronicles a future NYC wracked by climate change and follows the individuals who must make the most of what remains to survive. It's 2110, the Earth's glaciers have melted, and there's no climate fix in sight. As refugees stream inland from the inundated coasts, social structures and national economies are stressed to the point of fracture. Food production falters. Pandemics rage. Rising sea level and devastating superstorms have flooded much of Manhattan and wrecked its infrastructure. Its residents have mostly fled, but a few die-hards have bet their survival on the hope that digging in and staying local is a safer strategy. As the weather worsens, can a damaged population of poor folk, artists, misfits, and loners work out their differences in time to create a sustainable long-term society? In a lawless city, where the well-armed rich have appropriated the high ground, can an ex-priest find a middle road between non-violence and all-out war? The lives of his downtown band of leftovers will depend on it. Sheltering among them, a young girl named Glimmer struggles to regain a past lost to trauma. As her memory returns, she finds she must choose who and how to be, and who and what to believe in, even if it means giving up a love she has only recently found herself able to embrace. Praise for Marjorie B. Kellogg "If you like anthropological SF, and alien planets with reasonable planetary science, and excellent characters , you will enjoy  Lear's Daughters ." —Tor.com "If you're looking for science fiction that is truly able to transport you to another world and show you how very everyday characters react to that world,  Lear's Daughters  is absolutely a must read ." —Fantasy Book Review "This is an intriguing massive tome that will fascinate readers ." —Genre Go Round Writer and scenic designer Marjorie Bradley Kellogg lives in Franklin, NY, where she is the editor of The New Franklin Register . She is the author of Glimmer , A Rumor of Angels, Harmony, The Dragon Quartet, and Lear’s Daughters. She has designed scenery for Broadway, Off-Broadway, and for resident theatres across the country and in Europe, receiving many industry awards for her work. She taught at Princeton and Columbia and was Associate Professor of Theater at Colgate University from 1995 to 2017. ONE   When the fog clears, even for a moment, it can really turn your head around. I'm talking brain fog here: suddenly it was like, hello, it's Glim, finally having a thought about something other than survival.   A brief thought, but a beginning. Here's how it went.   Heading out on my usual shift. Been soloing less than a week, foraging through the steamy, dark, flooded city. Hated it. Most of us did, 'cept the adrenaline freaks. Each time the job posts went up, I'd mention other tasks I'd score better at, but hey, we were the young and able-bodied, so night was our beat. Beefing only got you a stern reminder that picking kept the den clothed and fed.   "Oughta call it what it is," my buddy Rubio groused, scrubbing his black scrawl of hair like it was the culprit. "Call it trash collecting. Junk mongering. Scavenging."   "Recycling?"   "Theft."   "Not anymore." Like most newbies, I took den practice at face value: we went to bed with our bellies full. What else could matter? "Like, no evac's coming back for his stuff any time soon. Or ever."   Rubio could dismiss entire arguments with a twitch of one shoulder.   "C'mon, Rube. Maybe tonight you get lucky."   "Ran outa that a long time ago."   Every night was hard, but out on the walkway that night, getting up our nerve seemed harder than usual. The overcast hung so thick and low, even the heat had weight, like stew on a slow boil. The dark uptown skyline wore a moonglow of cloud along its peaks. The water below us, what we called the Lagoon, was opaque and still as glass. Slack water.   I scowled at the looming sky. "Smells like rain."   "A thousand toxins drifting from the sky . . ." he sang softly.   "Rain's cleaner now, with the factories mostly down."   "Good thing, since we're drinking it. When's high tide?"   "Do you ever check the tables?"   "Why? When I have you to tell me." Rubio slouched on the railing for a long cough, scrawny legs rattling in his boot cuffs. His lungs sounded full of liquid.   No use me trying to help. "Maybe you shouldn't . . ."   "I'm fine," he croaked.   The scarred-up dude with one arm was on front door watch. He brandished his torch like it was us he was guarding the den from. "Yo! Gitcher selfs upright! Git out there an' show sum pride! Doncha be scurryin' roun' lika buncha marks!"   Rubio roused, sharp as an angry bird, stoking a snarl I knew he'd regret. I nudged him quiet. The watch dude was old and half-cracked, but he was usually cool, so you had to wonder what'd got into him. Likely, weather on the way. I felt it, too, an itch I couldn't scratch, ever since my tumble in Abel's Wave. That night, I could bar