Sam

I’ll admit, I approached *Sam* with skepticism. Another coming-of-age novel set in the ‘90s with a moody teenage narrator? Give me a break. But Rebecca Lowman’s performance sold me within the first chapter. Her Samantha isn’t a caricature of angst; she’s a fully realized person, flawed and fascinating, and Lowman makes sure you *feel* the friction of her every misstep. There’s a scene where Samantha lies to her therapist with such practiced ease it’s horrifying, but Lowman doesn’t overplay it—she lets the moment hang there, uncomfortable and real. The pacing, too, is masterful. Goodman doesn’t waste time on grand set pieces or contrived conflicts; she trusts the tension of Samantha’s internal monologue, and it works. If I had to nitpick, the audiobook’s runtime occasionally drags during the quieter, reflective stretches. Not because they’re poorly written, but because Goodman’s prose can feel deliberately slow, almost meditative. That’s a stylistic choice, sure, but it might test listeners who crave more forward momentum. And while Lowman’s performance is stellar, there were a handful of supporting characters whose accents (or lack thereof) occasionally blurred together, making it hard to distinguish voices in crowded scenes. Still, these are minor quibbles in an otherwise stellar listening experience. By the end, I wasn’t just invested in Samantha’s journey—I was rooting for her like she was a real person standing right in front of me.