“You have not been yourself lately,” the narrator of Vendela Vida’s new novel says to herself. Or maybe the narrator says it to the character: the story is told entirely in the second person, a decision that is strikingly odd at the start, then quickly becomes part of the alienating texture of this intoxicatingly strange novel. This “you” compels the reader into a very disquieting question from the first page – who am I? Am I this you? – which, as it happens, is the same question the main character orbits throughout. Who is she? Is she you? The limits of self wear away and identity bleeds out, and no one is quite secure in their skin.