From APALA-winning author and Guggenheim Fellow Kao Kalia Yang, a middle-grade debut about a Hmong American boy's struggle to find a place for himself in America and in the world of his ancestors. Malcolm is the youngest child of Hmong refugees, and he was born over a decade after his youngest sibling, giving him a unique perspective on his complicated immigrant family. In the first part of the story, we meet Malcolm as an elementary school kid through the eyes of the adults in his life—his parents and siblings, but also the white teachers at his Minnesota schools. As middle school begins, we encounter Malcolm in his own words, and suddenly we see that this "quiet, slow Hmong boy" is anything but. Malcolm is a gifted collector of his family's stories and tireless seeker of his own place within an evolving Hmong American culture, and his journey toward becoming a shaman like his grandparents before him is inspiring and revelatory. Winner of the Minnesota Book Award ★ "Lyrical, evocative prose deftly captures Malcolm’s longing for a sense of belonging; Yang has crafted a layered, profoundly moving musing on grief, connection (and lack thereof), and identity. A true gem." —Kirkus, starred review “[A] richly wrought tale about a boy coming into his own.”—Publishers Weekly "This is a moving story about a boy longing to feel a connection to his family and his identity. Yang’s writing is beautiful, seamlessly transitioning from one character to another, and situations involving violence and death are handled with care. VERDICT: A lovely fiction pick for readers who don’t often see themselves represented in fiction, those interested in learning more about Hmong spiritual beliefs, or seeking a fantasy genre not often explored for this age group."— School Library Journal "A beautifully crafted and layered look at identity, connection, culture, death, and belonging."—Teen Librarian Toolbox "No matter what character is speaking, the author’s prose shines." —St. Paul Pioneer Press Kao Kalia Yang is a Hmong-American writer. She is the author of the adult memoirs The Latehomecomer: A Hmong Family Memoir , The Song Poet , and Somewhere in the Unknown World . Yang is also the author of the children’s books A Map Into the World , The Shared Room , The Most Beautiful Thing , and Yang Warriors . Yang is a 2023 Guggenheim Fellow, and her work has been recognized by the National Endowment for the Arts, the National Book Critics Circle Award, the Chautauqua Prize, the PEN USA literary awards, the Dayton’s Literary Peace Prize, the American Library Association, Kirkus Best Books of the Year, the Heartland Bookseller’s Award, and garnered four Minnesota Book Awards. Kao Kalia Yang lives in Minnesota with her family, and teaches and speaks across the nation. Prologue Malcolm The white house on the prairie was my first house. It remains the site of my childhood dreams. I loved the sunny, windswept days. I remember when the warm sweeping breeze carried the wispy clouds across the blue sky, a vast backdrop for planes and birds. I remember when the clouds, in the arms of the mighty wind, dared to block out the shine of the sun and showed me what courage can do. I remember my father and me, him a taller and straighter version of me, and me a smaller, rounder version of him, on the John Deere riding mower. He’s seated behind, supporting me. The steering wheel is a moving thing pressed against my chest as I lean on him. Each time we looked across the stretch of the prairie, the uncut grass bending and moving like waves, the tall blades, proud and green on one side, pale and shy on the other, we’d both release the air in our chests at once. It was our breathing place, the Minnesota prairie. It seems now that all those days stored the air I’d need to pull me through all the moments to come when my breath was in danger of stopping. How many times have I imagined my father and me elsewhere? As we mowed, I pretended that we were on a boat in the middle of the ocean. Father and I fishing for sharks, parched with thirst, searching the map in our hearts for traces of home. Home was an island that could not be found on a map, an invisible speck on the stretch of the horizon, that clean line of sky and sea. The rainbows of light leaping off the water. I still feel the warmth of his chest against my head. Eyes closed in pretend slumber, I’d thump my head into the flesh and bone of the man who was my father. My small hands held fast to the round muscles on his arms and moved when they moved. We were a song then, the two of us together, caught up in the rhythm and melody of the sky and the earth and all that lived in between them. A memory: My father and I are mowing into the stretch of prairie grass, weeds and flowers growing in wild bounty. “Why do you cut the grass around the house first?” “So that I can kill all the ticks in the grass, so they can’t get you when you come out to play,” my father answers me. When my