In 2021, a bookish man named Maddux, who generally if uneasily responds to “Max,” works as a reference librarian in Berkeley, California, where he hears “the most remarkable, even deranged, questions.” After a harrowing LSD trip, he feels compelled to question the entirety of his existence in a fit of philosophical angst: “There was for me, now, no ultimate meaningfulness, I couldn’t understand why or even IF I existed, or if anyone really does exist….” Meanwhile, a nameless, unhoused person recounts his quotidian life with his dog, Cannella—one largely lived within the confines of an alley that abuts the library. Bern’s work flows between these narrative perspectives, reporting, by turns, from the alleyway and the reference desk. The resulting book is a dizzying brew of artistic expression that swings freely from blocks of prose to poems, interspersed with striking black-and-white photographic images by the author. The stories presented here have a fragmentary, impressionistic quality; they’re brief and sometimes hazy vignettes, woven into an uncertain tapestry of tales. The reader begins to get an intimation of the nameless narrator’s predicament—a violent home life growing up, a brother wounded in the Vietnam War and struggling with mental illness, and his own chronic drug use. With impressive subtlety, Bern draws arresting parallels between the two main characters, and both are impressive wordsmiths. However, Max, while sympathetic, simply can’t understand why unhoused people might not accept help from others. This is an unusual book that’s often exasperating to follow, and readers with little tolerance for stubborn uncertainty will be frustrated. However, for those who can navigate such slippery literary ground, this is a compelling hybrid of artistic forms.