Excerpt from Saltcrop by Yume Kitasei, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

Nora didn't move back home when she graduated. She got a job working for a Renewal lab testing agricultural products before they go to market. Since then, her visits home have become less frequent, and Nora has worn soft in Skipper's mind like a much-patched denim jacket.

Skipper fantasizes about sailing to the city, is even saving money for it, but it never happens.

Over a month and a half ago in late September, they received a message from one of Nora's colleagues—his name is John—saying Nora was gone. They hadn't heard from her in almost two months, and her last paycheck bounced. The colleague thought she'd returned home and wanted to know if they should mail her things from the lab: a thin, silk scarf, a yellow teapot painted with sunflowers, a chipped mug with bees on it, and several boxes of books.

For a brief, excited week, Skipper prepared for Nora's arrival. She stayed home and cleaned the house from top to bottom so thoroughly even their grandmother muttered something dangerously close to approval. She fixed the squeak to the guest room door. They planned a big meal.

Except Nora never arrived.

It took a week of agonizing back-and-forth to clarify that John-the-colleague, in fact, doesn't know where Nora is or anything useful, despite the PhD included prominently in his message signature.

At first, Skipper and Carmen thought maybe Nora took a detour—as if there is more than just one route from the city to the town. But another two weeks came and went, and they had to assume the colleague was wrong.

All messages to Nora prompt only the frustrating automated reply she's used for years: Hello, I do not check this inbox often, as I do not believe in sharing my personal business with corporations. If you need to reach me, you know how to reach me. Thank you!

Nora's quaint paranoia is no longer endearing or amusing.

"She just wants to be mysterious. It's selfish," Carmen says. Carmen and Nora don't get along.

This morning, as Carmen and Skipper were yanking onions in the garden for Grandma's birthday dinner, John-the-colleague, PhD, wrote again: We'll need to dispose of Nora's personal property if you don't arrange for shipping in a week. We have a new staff member starting, and as I am sure you agree, he has a right to space for his personal things.

The price he then quoted to freight her things back was enough to make Carmen's lip curl. "It's not worth that much," she said, ever practical. "She wouldn't have just left the stuff if it meant anything to her."

Except—except! It is the mention of the mug with the bees. Bees and boats. Skipper painted that mug herself back in art class. She gave it to Nora right before she went away. And it means something, that Nora's kept it, sipped from it, put it where she could see it for ten years. It must be more than chipped by now, maybe glued back together. Nora wouldn't have "just left" it.

"Do you think she's in trouble?" Skipper had asked for the thirteenth time this morning.

"She was always a little thoughtless," Grandma said, more lucid than usual. "I'm sure she's just gone off and forgotten to let anyone know."

Carmen wrote to the police and an old friend she knew in the city—Carmen has friends everywhere—without satisfaction. But it is a city, and cities are places a person can get lost. No one knows where Nora is. No one is even bothering to look.

Skipper has been hoping, deep down, Carmen will fix everything. Carmen is two years younger than Nora and four years older than Skipper. And while Nora may be the one with big ideas, Carmen is the one who has woken up every day at six since she was twelve, earned a college degree and nursing license while working a full-time job, and still folds the laundry after all of that. Not much can fatigue Carmen, and Carmen's creeping failure now makes Skipper more anxious than anything.

Excerpted from Saltcrop by Yume Kitasei. Copyright © 2025 by Yume Kitasei. Excerpted by permission of Flatiron Books. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.