Tell the Wolves I’m Home: A Novel by Carol Rifka Brunt
One excerpt from this lovely novel:
I knew Toby had stories. He had little pieces of Finn I’d never seen. And the apartment. Maybe there would be a chance to see the apartment again. My mother would call it scraping the bottom of the barrel. Looking for the very last crumbs. My mother would call it being greedy, but I didn’t care. If you think a story can be like a kind of cement, the sloppy kind that you put between bricks, the kind that looks like cake frosting before it dries hard, then maybe I thought it would be possible to use what Toby had to hold Finn together, to keep him here with me a little bit longer.