Excerpt from So Far Gone by Jess Walter, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

Dear Anna. If you're reading this, I had to leave in a hurry. I know this is a lot to ask but can you take the kids to my father, Rhys Kinnick. He is a recluse who cut off contact with our family and now lives in squalor . . .

"Squalor?" Kinnick looked around his covered front porch. "Squalor?" In one corner, a broken old refrigerator stood next to a stack of used boat and car batteries and a burned-out inverter generator; in the other corner was his old wringer washing machine and a single clothesline, from which hung a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt. "What is this? In case of emergency, go find my father and make him feel terrible about himself?"

His grandchildren continued to stare. Kinnick groaned again, then resumed reading, vowing to make it through the whole letter this time.

Dear Anna. If you're reading this, I had to leave in a hurry. I know this is a lot to ask but can you take the kids to my father, Rhys Kinnick. He is a recluse who cut off contact with our family and now lives in squalor in a cabin north of Spokane, in Stevens County. He lives off the grid and doesn't have email or phone. Go north out of Spokane on Highway 395 for thirty-five miles. At Loon Lake, turn onto Highway 292. Drive five miles, and at the T, go right, in the opposite direction of the Spokane Indian Reservation. Go through the little town of Springdale, then turn left onto Hunters Road, and drive ten miles. You'll come to another dirt road on the left that crosses a small bridge, drive another quarter mile until you see a culvert and two tire tracks cutting through a stand of birch trees on your left. This is Dad's driveway. It is unmarked. Drive up a small rise and you'll see his gray, cinder block house at the base of a hill above a stream. A warning, my father can be rather acerbic—

"Acerbic?" He let the letter fall to his side. "Seriously, who asks for help this way?" Still, in a flash of pride, he admired the rich language—recluse, squalor, acerbic—Bethany still had a way with words. At one time, he had thought maybe she'd become a writer, like he used to be, but she lacked the patience, he supposed. Or maybe the confidence.

Then something else occurred to him, and he looked down at the girl. "What about your grandmother?" But, as soon as he said it—

"Grandma Celia died," Leah said.

Asher nodded.

"Oh, no," Kinnick said. "When?"

"A month ago," Leah said.

"Oh, Celia." She'd always exuded a sort of frailty, as if she didn't belong on this plane of existence. Kinnick fell against the doorframe, his side cramping. No wonder Bethany had run off. Her mother had been the closest thing she'd had to a compass.

"Grandma got lymphoma," Asher said. So strange, such a big word coming from such a small mouth. Reminded him of Bethany when she was little.

"Oh, Celia," Kinnick said again, and his eyes got bleary. He pictured her as she'd been when they'd first met, at the University of Oregon library, forty years ago, her long hair swishing side to side like a show-horse's tail. He was studying botany and natural sciences; she wanted to be a nurse. He remembered her asleep, turned away from him, the high curve of her cheekbone. Had anyone ever slept so peacefully? He used to put a hand in front of her mouth, just to feel her breath, make sure she was still there. They married a year after meeting, then finished grad school, welcomed Bethany into the world, and started their life together—until that life, like everything else decent and worthwhile, began to crack.

"I'll bet she was a wonderful grandmother," Kinnick said.

"Yes," said Leah, her brother nodding at her side.

Oh, poor Celia, Kinnick thought. And poor Bethany. He didn't picture her as she was now, lost mother to these two kids, but as his big-eyed baby girl, lying awake in bed every night, waiting for a story from her dad. And now, that girl, that woman, that mother, was without a mother. Oh, poor Bethany. And these poor kids, grandchildren he hasn't seen in years, that he hadn't even recognized on his front porch.

Excerpted from So Far Gone by Jess Walter. Copyright © 2025 by Jess Walter. Excerpted by permission of Harper. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.