Belfast begins, as ever, with the kettle. A flat in a tired block leaks in three places, the radiators clank, and the window never quite forgets the sea. Inside, Aoife and Cael keep their girls warm with bread, tea, and the kind of patience that looks like luck from across the hall. Around them drifts a chorus: Tiernan with jokes that dare the gloom; Selene with a notebook and steadier pulse; Ronan with a guitar that remembers how hope sounds. Doors open, chairs scrape, and a hallway becomes a village.

They fix what they can. Bulbs and hinges. Tins and tempers. A noticeboard that forgives better after ten. On wet nights the choir meets, and somebody always knows the low part. When the landlord's letter bites and winter bares its teeth, they make an agreement: ask sooner, share faster, and tell the truth before it hardens. There's a pup called Chaos who insists on tenderness, a jar where crocuses survive, and a list on the fridge titled Things Worth Keeping that grows unruly and right.

Better Wild Than Gone is an upmarket, heart-forward novel about maintenance as a love language and the communal hush that holds when a city goes thin. It is not a rags-to-riches tale; it is a bread-and-radiators one, where the victory is a working lamp, a rent meeting with witnesses, and the courage to say "I don't know" before "I'm fine." Fans of lyrical, character-driven fiction-where found family is a verb and humour shoulders the load-will find themselves at home here.

Come for the jokes that land like life preservers. Stay for the ordinary courage: a hand on a shoulder at the right moment, a key passed to the neighbour who needs it, and a household that chooses, again and again, to keep the lights.