Ben, a "what-if kid" with many worries and fears, is spending a week with his mother, who left him when he was three years old, in her off-the-grid cabin on a small island in northern Minnesota. Ben has his imaginary dog, Sunshine, to keep him company, and he also has a plan: By the end of the week, after his mom has gotten to know and like him, he'll ask her to come home to stay. But Ben keeps messing things up. He shrugs his mom's arm off his shoulders. He accidentally endangers them as they observe a mother bear and her cub. He can't prevent flashes of anger from cropping up. While exploring on his own one afternoon, Ben, who is white, finds himself desperately lost in the woods, and worst of all, Sunshine has disappeared. That night, an ensuing catastrophe causes Ben to wonder whether he has ruined things irrevocably between himself and his mother—and Sunshine. This heartbreaking and sensitively written depiction of childhood trauma and the cycle of abuse offers no easy resolutions, but a conversation about the day mother left son provides hope, and a chance for the two to begin healing. (Ages 8-11)

Set in the northern Minnesota wilderness, a timeless novel about a boy and his imaginary dog explores the legacy of guilt and blame—and what really constitutes a family.

Newbery Honoree Marion Dane Bauer evokes the “summer that changed everything” in the life of a boy growing up without a mother. Since as far back as Ben can remember, it’s been him, his devoted dad, and Sunshine—Ben’s little dog, who rarely leaves Ben’s side. It was Mom who did the leaving, and Ben’s about to spend a whole week with his suddenly present mother in the wilds of northern Minnesota. On the remote island she calls home, Ben will learn to canoe, weather the elements, and weigh a burning question: when will she come back to where she belongs? A must-read for dog lovers, children of divorce, and the imaginative and outdoorsy, Sunshine is a poignant, ultimately hopeful story about self-discovery, facing big realities, and finally, forgiving the things—and people—you can’t forget.