I read this while laid low by a bug and let me tell you, nothing will cure you (ha!) of self-pity more than the knowledge that your physical malady could be much, much worse. Preston manages to inject a remarkable amount of suspense in scenes that are essentially getting in and out of biohazard suits while sporting a cut. Definitely not for the weak of stomach, since the description of how the Ebola viruses ravage the body is thorough and unflinching.

Those poor women. A feat of unreliable narrator-building in the Humbertian vein, there's real skill in the way Hornby uses, say, phonecalls to illustrate how Rob is kind of a monster. I'm more iffy about the general principle of the ending, but even schlubby men deserve Bridget Jonesian happy endings, I guess.

4.5. My emotional wellbeing needed this book, lol.

Beautifully written and challenging stories, and a clearly well thought-out editorial ethos. This is the thing that I look for from anthologies, and I definitely got it here.