This is Mullens’ memoir of the rocky relationship with her right-wing-conspiracy-theorist mother using logical proofs as a narrative device. It’s written in a way that reminded me of the Ted Chiang story I recently reread for my Personal Anthology.

In bed, lights off in the middle of the day, laptop balanced on my knees, I paused the video of Trump’s Waco rally to scan for my mother in the crowd. A woman with dark hair like hers balls a fist, the frame frozen as she raises it toward the sky. I bring my face closer to the screen: she’s the right height, maybe, but her posture’s all wrong. And the arm? No. Too gangly.