How can someone be this good at writing? How can someone imbue a narrative with such subtle beauty, such genuine earnestness, so much so it makes you cry? I thought all of this when I read Enger's most recent, Virgil Wander, but this one made me feel them even stronger. This book is one of those long-winded, meandering stories that starts before you're ready: without much exposition, Reuben Land launches the reader straight into his family's life in a small Minnesota town, where his brother Davy shoots two teenagers one rainy night. His sister is an epic poet, spinning tales of Western heroes and villains, his father can perform miracles and speak directly to God.

This story can't quite be called a Western, though it has the trappings of one. Instead, it is a further mythologized version of the genre within a larger tale: one of childhood, loss, wonder, and faith. Enger's prose is perfect. Reuben's narration fills in the minutiae of Land family life while the family deals with the real terror of Davy's disappearance. I haven't sobbed so hard at the end of a book in quite some time. It's beautiful, and I just want to keep living in it.