I picked up *The Nickel Boys* with skepticism—another Pulitzer winner? But within pages, Colson Whitehead’s razor-sharp prose gutted me. This isn’t just a book; it’s an excavation of America’s buried cruelty, wrapped in the story of Elwood Curtis, a boy whose optimism feels like a flickering candle in a hurricane.

The way Whitehead paints Nickel Academy—a so-called reform school—is chillingly matter-of-fact. The abuse isn’t sensationalized; it’s *routine*, which makes it worse. I found myself clutching the book during Elwood’s scenes with Turner, their friendship a fragile life raft. Whitehead’s genius? He lets you fill in the horrors between the lines. That scene where Elwood clings to MLK’s speeches while Turner scoffs? I had to put the book down and stare at the wall for five minutes.

And that ending. No spoilers, but it rearranged my understanding of everything I’d just read. It’s the kind of twist that doesn’t feel cheap—it feels *inevitable*, like history itself correcting the record.

This isn’t an easy read (I cried twice), but it’s essential. If you think you know about systemic racism, this novel will humble you. Five stars don’t feel like enough.