Yesteryear by Caro Claire Burke

Rae Woods Vice President, National Spokesperson & Host of the Radio Advisory Podcast

Confession: I did not technically read this book. I listened to it. In my defense, I'm a podcast host. Asking me to sit quietly and consume words with my eyes when there's an excellent audio version available feels like asking a fish to ride a bike.

If you somehow missed "Yesteryear" during its seemingly unavoidable takeover of the cultural conversation this summer, first, congratulations on maintaining healthier boundaries with BookTok than the rest of us. Second, add it to your fall reading list immediately.

At its core, "Yesteryear" is a smart, immersive novel that uses time travel to explore a question that feels surprisingly current: how often do we imagine a "simpler" era without fully appreciating who that simplicity was actually designed for?

That theme could easily become heavy-handed in less capable hands. Instead, in her debut novel, Burke delivers a story that's inventive, genre-bending, and deeply engaging. I came for the clever premise and stayed for the characters, whom I frequently wanted to shake and occasionally wanted to hug. What I appreciated most was Burke's ability to tackle bigger questions about nostalgia, privilege, and progress without losing sight of what matters most: telling a great story.

As someone who spends a lot of time telling stories to healthcare leaders about disruption, transformation, and the temptation to look backward when the future feels uncertain, I found myself thinking about this book long after I finished it. At its best, "Yesteryear" isn't really a book about time travel — it's a book about nostalgia, progress, and the stories we tell ourselves about the past.

Whether you're looking for a thoughtful discussion starter or simply want to understand the book that seemed to dominate everyone's group chat this summer, "Yesteryear" is well worth your time.

Or your listening time. Some of us are audio people.

Small Rain by Garth Greenwell

Vidal Seegobin, Vice President, Provider Growth and Operations

This relatively short novel had a profoundly deep impact on me. The set up is relatively simple: The narrator suddenly falls ill and his prognosis is unclear.

What unfolds through Greenwell's detailed and insightful prose is a deeply personal but universally understandable dive into the fear, hope, and disappointment that comes from being sick. The book excels at the small moments that hold big feelings, like the power of a gentle hand on your leg when the nurse comes to check in on you. 

We talk a lot about the importance of humans and healthcare. But in our day-to-day (and I'm particularly guilty of this), we abstract away from people to make sense of an incredibly complex interplay of economics, technology, and expertise. What I loved most about this book was how it invites readers to sit in the space we occupy as patients and, more importantly, to embrace the fear, hope, and love that define the human experience.

Etna by Paul Yoon

Shay Pratt, Vice President, Research 

"Etna" is the story of a war dog trying to make his way home after years of military service. Yes, the dog is the narrator, but Yoon does a great job with the canine perspective without drifting into cheese or sap (although you do need to open to a hint of magical realism). 

The book explores what "home" means after a cataclysm, how to remake a life, and how to find connection amidst upheaval. Heavy themes, but the spare prose doesn't tell you how to feel. Even though the book is short, I felt like I'd completed an enormous journey at the close.

Everything is Tuberculosis by John Green

Chloe Bakst, Research Consultant, Pharmacy and Diagnostics Research

I love this book.

First of all, Green does a beautiful job of depicting the real impact of global health inequities. It's a health nerd's dream, digging deep into the history of one of humanity's most ancient and tenacious diseases. But ultimately, I'll be thinking most about some of the philosophical questions raised throughout the text.

Most cultures and societies throughout history have hesitated to define themselves by the illnesses or diseases they've faced. But the story of tuberculosis has followed us through the ages. What happens when we stop turning away from our shared humanity, diseased and imperfect as we all are?

Maybe to quote Green, we'll move together in a "slow but persistent march toward more just and equitable human-built systems." 

This Thing Between Us by Gus Moreno

Ben Palmer, Editor, News

I love the horror genre, and throughout October, all I read are spooky books (it just feels like the right time of year, you know?). Gus Moreno's "This Thing Between Us" is one of the most compelling and fascinating horror stories I've read in a long time. It's beautifully written — poetic and creative with a fascinating story.

Without giving too much away, the premise of the book puts us with Thiago, whose wife Vera has just died in a terrible accident. But that accident happened not long after a lot of strange things started happening around the house, especially after Thiago and Vera bought an Itza, the "world's most advanced smart speaker." As Thiago deals with the grief of losing his wife, more strange things keep happening.

The best horror stories use a ghost or a demon or an entity as a metaphor for something else. Often, that thing is grief (as it is here).

And while, yes, this is a spooky sort of haunting-type story, more than anything this is a story about dealing with grief and loss and everything that comes with that: the rage that comes with losing someone, the way grief can haunt you and tear you to shreds, the way it can sometimes bury you alive, the way grief can act as a barrier to moving on with your life, and the way it will ultimately attempt to consume you entirely.

This book is one of the more fascinating and creative meditations in grief that I've ever read. Anyone reading this literally as purely just a spooky story will be understandably confused. I want to caution you against doing that. If instead you read this story as a broad, at times abstract, metaphor for grief, it's an exceptionally rewarding experience.

And it's pretty scary too.