Black humor mixed with pathos is the hallmark of the twelve stories in this adult debut collection from a master writer of comic and inventive YA novels. A young man spends a whole day lying naked on the floor of his apartment, conversing casually with his roommates, pondering the past, considering the lives being lived around him. In the odd and funny, sad yet somehow hopeful conceit of Sean Beaudoin's story "Exposure," are all the elements that make his debut collection, Welcome Thieves, a standout. In twelve virtuosic stories, Beaudoin trains his absurdist's eye on the ridiculous perplexities of adult life. From muddling through after the apocalypse ("Base Omega Has Twelve Dictates") to the knowing smirk of "You Too Can Graduate with a Degree in Contextual Semiotics," Beaudoin's stories are edgy and profane, bittersweet and angry, bemused and sardonic. Yet they're always tinged with heart. Beaudoin's novels have been praised for their playfulness and complexity, for the originality and beauty of their language. Those same qualities, and much more, are on full display in Welcome Thieves, a book that should find devout fans in readers who worship at the altar of George Saunders, Kurt Vonnegut, and Sam Lipsyte. "A deviously spellbinding collection of short stories in which strange and beautiful worlds, creations of Sean Beaudoin's dark and sometimes brutal imagination, emerge as part of a tapestry so finely woven that we don't see the thread. In the end, we can only stand in awe of Beaudoin's immense talent." -Garth Stein, author of A Sudden Light Sean Beaudoin is the author of five young adult novels, including The Infects and Wise Young Fool. He is also a founding editor of the arts and culture website TheWeeklings.com, for which he has written more than fifty essays. Sean's stories and articles have appeared in numerous publications, including the Onion, the San Francisco Chronicle, and Salon. He lives in Seattle with his wife and daughter. The Rescues 1995 Ford TraumaHawk SL Ambulance The third game of the season Danny took a cheap shot in the crease, bled out like a pig. Time was called. His teammates put on a show, kicked at the dirt, and swore revenge without the sac to follow through. So he sat for forty-eight stitches with a fish hook and no anesthetic, sprinted from the locker room, and doled near-Balkan retribution. The Cornholers won by eleven. Even Coach was like, "Bring it down a notch, Danny. They're gripping their pearls." And it was true, the other team, full of guys with something better on the side, prelaw, premed, all of them suddenly asking,Who needs this madness? Danny did. Every second, minute, inch, foot. Sweat and uniform and pads and stick. The Cornholers rose in the standings, playoffs in sight for the first time in decades. Then the last game of the season a big-name Ivy rolled in, none of their players much except the midfielder, all jaw and shaved head. A towering Cossack with three-day stubble and yellow breath. His eyes were empty, lips flecked with blood. "I've heard of you," the Cossack said. "No you haven't." "I've seen you play." "No you didn't." They danced and hacked and elbowed all the way across the field. It hurt. Danny watched as he clotheslined their forwards, dished cheap shots to the fullbacks, delivered pain with pro efficiency. With a radiant grin. There was no hesitation, no nuance. It was almost like being in the backyard with Dad again, running drills, pushing limits. Exploring the fine line between Just Doing It and puking a streak of Gatorade across the neighbor's fence. "You and me? We could be friends," the Cossack whispered, as they chopped and muscled in front of goal. "Let's hang out, go to dinner and a show." Dan

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