So when I set out for Thanksgiving break with a bag full of poetry books and student portfolios, avoiding anything with a prose-shaped narrative, what I really mean to do is pack some kind of novel I can read once everyone else is asleep and I'm taming my restless legs syndrome. If I don't do this, then I am left the the whims of the bookshelves I am visiting, and this book, which I bought for my husband many years ago, rose to the top--an escape mystery set in the state I call home. The North Woods, a little American Indian history, writing that doesn't make me cringe--a nice little formulation. The story wasn't entirely a page-turner; enough to keep me awake and busy, but the craft of the mystery felt weak, a little stumbling, a little swept-under-the-rug. Can I ever really complain when I find it hard to put a book down? It served its purpose, and I doubt I will ever find a perfect escape book--this might be an oxymoron, a ridiculous holy grail.