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Resurrecting Sunshine

Resurrecting Sunshine

4.4 5
by Lisa A. Koosis

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At seventeen, Adam Rhodes is famous, living on his own, and in a downward spiral since he lost the girl he loved. Marybeth—stage name Sunshine—was his best friend from the days they were foster kids; then she was his girlfriend and his band mate. But since her accidental death, he's been drinking to deal with the memories. Until one day, an unexpected


At seventeen, Adam Rhodes is famous, living on his own, and in a downward spiral since he lost the girl he loved. Marybeth—stage name Sunshine—was his best friend from the days they were foster kids; then she was his girlfriend and his band mate. But since her accidental death, he's been drinking to deal with the memories. Until one day, an unexpected visitor, Dr. Elloran, presents Adam with a proposition that just might save him from himself. Using breakthrough cloning and memory-implantation techniques, Dr. Elloran and the scientists at Project Orpheus want to resurrect Marybeth, and they need Adam to "donate" intimate memories of his life with her. The memory retrieval process forces Adam to relive his life with Marybeth and the devastating path that brought them both to fame. Along the way, he must confront not only the circumstances of her death but also his growing relationship with the mysterious Genevieve, daughter of Project Orpheus's founder. As the process sweeps Adam and Marybeth ever closer to reliving the tragedy that destroyed them, Adam must decide how far he'll go to save her.

Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly
Ten years in the future, scientists involved with the secretive Project Orpheus are bringing back the dead through cloned cells and preserved memories. After the famous singer Marybeth—known to her fans as Sunshine—drowns, 17-year-old Adam, her guitarist, onetime boyfriend, and confidant, is called into service so that his harvested memories can fill in the gaps to help her cheat death. Using this thought-provoking framework, debut author Koosis leads readers through a labyrinth of moral, spiritual, and emotional dilemmas explored through complex characters grappling with loss. Marybeth comes to life, so to speak, through Adam’s detailed recollections: their initial meeting in foster care, the patchwork family they created and lost in a bus crash, and the weight of coping with her death. Adam’s new friend Gen, daughter of Project Orpheus’s founder, becomes his lone ally, but the project itself is rife with paradox as Adam resists saddling the clone with the same heartbreak that contributed to the real Marybeth’s demise and characters question why only the wealthy get to play God. Koosis’s philosophical tale thoughtfully examines the ambiguity of what makes us who we are. Ages 13–up. Agent: Brianne Johnson, Writers House. (Oct.)
From the Publisher

"Raises deep, ethical questions that teens, especially those who have lost someone, will find interesting to contemplate." VOYA, December 1, 2016

"Leads readers through a labyrinth of moral, spiritual, and emotional dilemmas explored through complex characters grappling with loss….Koosis’s philosophical tale thoughtfully examines the ambiguity of what makes us who we are.” Publishers Weekly, August 29, 2016

VOYA, December 2016 (Vol. 39, No. 5) - Jen Baker
Musician Sunshine died a year ago in a tragic accident, and Adam, her guitar player and boyfriend, has been a mess ever since. When the mysterious Dr. Elloran knocks on his door and tells him that she can bring Sunshine back through state-of-the-art cloning and memory-implantation techniques, he jumps at the chance. Dr. E’s only requirements are that he does exactly as she says and stops drowning his sorrows in alcohol. As he is forced to relive his painful memories while Dr. E studies them for implantation in Sunshine, he starts to wonder if Dr. E and he want the same thing. Dr. E wants the famous musician Sunshine, but Adam just wants Marybeth, the girl he fell in love with, the girl who was not famous for wearing a yellow dress, the girl who was not marred by tragedy. The premise of Resurrecting Sunshine raises deep, ethical questions that teens, especially those who have lost someone, will find interesting to contemplate. Adam is a conflicted character, torn between what he wants most in the world, and what might be best for the girl he loved. The reader is aware that Adam is hiding from something, and will feel for him as he struggles to rectify the overwhelming joy of seeing his lost love with the knowledge that he can protect her from her painful past, even if it means he loses her. If at times the plot twists are a bit predictable, it is easily forgiven since the tension involving Adam’s choices is expertly crafted. Reviewer: Jen Baker; Ages 12 to 18.
School Library Journal
Gr 8 Up—When Sunshine died almost a year ago, the world mourned the singer. Adam Rhodes, Sunshine's boyfriend and backup guitarist, wishes he could process his grief in private—for Sunshine and the girl she used to be when she was still called Marybeth and they were growing up in foster care. Instead, Adam settles for dulling his senses with alcohol. When Dr. Elloran shows up at his door, he expects her to be another reporter or fan. Instead, she offers Adam the impossible: Elloran plans to use cloning and Memory Archiving Port (MAP) technology to bring Sunshine back to prove to the world (and Elloran's investors) that Project Orpheus can resurrect the dead. If Adam plays along—helping this new Sunshine remember the final days of her life and restoring other degraded memories—he'll have the chance to see Marybeth again. As Adam remembers the tragedy that led to his and Sunshine's fame, he is forced to confront painful memories of her death and begins to question if his decision is right for anyone. Simplistic and utilitarian world-building, including poorly explained technology, ground this sci-fi novel in 2026. A slow start and weak execution detract from a potentially intriguing premise. Koosis raises some interesting questions about cloning, depression, and suicide, but her prose falls short of insightful answers. VERDICT Short chapters will appeal to reluctant readers willing to go along with the often tedious plot. Possibly for readers looking for something in the vein of Adam Silvera's More Happy Than Not.—Emma Carbone, Brooklyn Public Library
Kirkus Review
A teenager longs for his dead girlfriend.It’s been one year since Adam’s girlfriend, Marybeth, died in a freak drowning accident. Adam doesn’t mourn alone. Marybeth was known to the world as “Sunshine,” a singer/songwriter who touched the world with her melodies. Adam was her guitarist, joining Sunshine on stage and becoming famous as well, but that fame can’t help him cope with his loss. When a mysterious agency shows up on Adam’s doorstep offering to clone Sunshine and bring her back from the dead, Adam can’t resist helping them reconstruct her memories. Adam soon finds himself on a mysterious Pacific island, surrounded by scientists all day and hanging out with a strange, young woman named Genevieve by night. The unfolding story has a repetitive nature: Adam enters a memory, has reservations, is reassured, repeat. There’s a large valley in the middle where very little happens. As Adam helps rebuild Sunshine’s memories, readers get peeks into the couple’s troubled past, but there’s not much to surprise them in it. The quandary surrounding cloning is poked at here and there, but the conclusion feels inevitable, and readers will get antsy as the author slowly marches toward it. The primary cast seems to be a largely white one. An overlong and under-thought sci-fi exercise. (Science fiction. 14-17)

Product Details

Whitman, Albert & Company
Publication date:
Sales rank:
Product dimensions:
5.50(w) x 8.20(h) x 1.00(d)
Age Range:
13 - 18 Years

Read an Excerpt

Resurrecting Sunshine

By Lisa A. Koosis

Albert Whitman and Company

Copyright © 2016 Lisa A. Koosis
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-8075-6944-3


This is the memory that visits my dreams.

We're walking through a concrete underpass that smells like piss and stale beer and rotting fish. Marybeth is framed by the rectangle of light at the tunnel's end, her dark hair in ponytails, her eyes hidden behind huge plastic sunglasses — probably stolen from her foster mom's dresser — that should make her look stupid but instead make her look incredibly hot. Her sneakers slap on the concrete, and her knapsack, slung carelessly over one shoulder, bounces at her side.

We step out onto the beach. Dark, flat-bottomed clouds hang low over us, and fat raindrops crater the sand. There's no one here but us and the gulls, which tip their heads back and screech, cries that sound like laughter.

The wind yanks strands of Marybeth's hair free from her ponytails and turns her cheeks pink. She kicks off her sneakers, abandoning them.

We walk along the water's edge. The ocean is all whitecaps. Salty spray wets my face.

Near the jetty, Marybeth plops down onto the sand. She pushes the sunglasses on top of her head and digs in her knapsack, pulling out a plastic boat, red with a yellow sail, the kind every cheapo toy store sells.

"I never had one of these," she says. She smiles at me, one of her weird smiles that I can never decipher as happy or sad or maybe a little of both.

She takes a black marker from her bag and, on the side of the boat, in block letters, writes: ADAM.

Then: [love]

And below that: MARYBETH.

She stands, wiping sand from her jeans, and carries the boat to the water.

The ocean rushes up around her ankles, soaking her jeans. A sign on the jetty warns: No Swimming. Hazardous Currents. I want to tell her to be careful, but I don't dare, so I stand beside her instead.

She squats down and drops the ADAM [love] MARYBETH boat into the water. It immediately rides out on a trail of foam.

I think, It's going to sink. I want to make her turn away before she can see it happen. But I don't, and it doesn't sink. Instead, we watch the little boat ride the current out until it's no more than a red-and-yellow speck.

I close my eyes, and when I open them again I'm looking back at Marybeth. She's standing on shore, waving, which makes no sense, except suddenly I feel the motion of waves beneath me, the rise and fall of a boat on rough water.

What ...?

I wrap my hands around the boat's rail, which shouldn't flex beneath my fingers. But it does, because it's not metal. It's plastic and red. Only now it's life-size.

I lean over the side. Sure enough, there are the words Marybeth wrote.

Except the MARYBETH is scratched out, and now it reads: ADAM [love] MARYBETH SUNSHINE.

"Marybeth?" I call to her. But the wind swallows my words.

Above me, a sail flaps, the sound sharp and clear. I look up at it, searching for a way to lower it, because it's pulling me away from shore, from Marybeth. But when I look, it's not a sail at all. It's nothing but a yellow dress, catching the wind.

And when I look back to shore, Marybeth is gone.


When I roll over, my traitorous body still expects to find her beside me, sleepy and warm. But the only curves my hands find belong to my buddy Jose Cuervo, the bottle mostly empty, and a reeking mound of blankets. My little freaking pearl of a world.

Out in the hall, the intercom for the security gate buzzes.

I shove Jose out of the bed. "Oh for fuck's sake!"

Who is it now? NBC? MTV? StarStreamz? I thought I was done with this. But no, here they are again, probably revving up for the one-year anniversary of her death. Like if just the right amount of time passes, a death is something to celebrate, with balloons and ice cream and stupid paper streamers. Yellow, of course.

My brain races ahead. To five years, ten years, the possibility that they'll never stop. That they'll still demand that I stand in front of their cameras and microphones and keep some piece of her alive.

Here's your news flash, assholes. She's gone. Dead. Not coming back for some ten o'clock special report.

The buzz of the intercom continues — bzzzz, pause, bzzzz, pause, bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz — like Morse code for hornets.

I yank off the sheets and get up, finding last night's jeans on the floor and pulling them on. From the bedroom window, I can see the high wrought iron fence that surrounds our — I mean my — home. But no satellite-dish-topped news vans wait at the curb, no online reporters waving streaming holocams. Not even some hopeful fangirls, thumbs ready to tweet: "I saw him. I saw Adam!" Only a single dark blue SUV stands outside the gate.

I open the window and lean out. "Get off my property."

The intercom buzzes again and this time doesn't stop. Why didn't I disable that damn thing months ago?

"We're really going to do this, huh?" I slam the window shut and head down the hall. In the intercom's monitor, I can see a blond woman waiting. As best I can tell, there's no camera crew, no microphones, just her.

I stab the talk button. "In thirty seconds I call the cops."

She jumps, which gives me a second of satisfaction. "Mr. Rhodes?"

"You heard me. No interviews. Twenty-nine, twenty-eight ..."

"I'm not ..." She shakes her head and her ponytail wags. "Mr. Rhodes — Adam — I'm not here for an interview."

"Then what do you want?" I mean for it to come out angry, rough, the voice of someone in charge. Instead, it sounds small and sad.

Her image warps as she leans in toward the camera. "My name is Dr. Trixie Elloran. I'm the scientific director of a very special research project, and I'm here with a proposition I know you'll want to hear. If you'd please let me have five minutes — five minutes, Adam — I promise you'll find it worth your time."

As if my time is worth anything.

As if she can possibly say something that matters.

Way down in the pit of my belly, something churns. And maybe it's boredom or curiosity or just being tired of the silence in this damn house, but before I can stop myself I hit the release for the gate.

The woman gets into the SUV and drives through the gate. By the time I reach the front door, she's knocking.

She isn't dressed like a reporter. No voice-of-authority, five- o'clock-news clothes, but also not the I'm-thirty-but-trying-to- look-twenty-hipster/interviewer look that you see on most of the net streams. And with her white blouse and faded jeans, the messenger bag slung over her shoulder, she isn't dressed like a doctor either.

When she extends her hand to shake mine, I turn away.

"Five minutes." I step aside to let her in, making a point of looking at my wrist only to realize I'm not wearing a watch.

She heads immediately into the living room and sits in one of the armchairs without waiting for an invitation, as if she knows one won't be coming. She puts her bag on the floor.

"Why don't you sit?" she says, like this is her house instead of mine ... instead of Sunshine's.

My heart pounds. "No thanks."

It's been ages since anyone besides me sat in this living room, and for a second I see the room as she must: thick dust on everything, pizza boxes — some still hiding petrified slices — on the floor, the stained couch, sweaty T-shirts caught in the cushions, bottles everywhere.

But she keeps her eyes locked on me. "I'll cut to it."

"Good idea, lady."

She nods. Her voice is soft but direct. "Adam, what if I told you we could give Sunshine back to you?"


"Lady, what kind of bullshit joke ...I?" I take a step toward her. "Are you wearing a mic?"

She just sits there, calmly watching me. "Adam —"

"Your time is up." I grab my phone from my pocket and tap 9, then 1. "Get out before I call the cops."

But she doesn't move. She just says, "I'm not with any television show, and this isn't a joke."

I tap the second 1 and let my finger hover over the green Call icon. Do it, I tell myself. Did you lose your motor functions, loser?

Maybe it just feels good to have someone to yell at.

"No? Then maybe you didn't get the same memo as the rest of the world, because Sunshine is dead. So tell me. How are you going to 'give her back'?"

And even as I say it, there's a small, pathetic voice somewhere in my brain that's saying, Tell me. Please tell me.

"I would like to explain." She leans forward. "If you would like to listen."

My finger shakes, a fraction of an inch over my phone, but I stand, silent, both listening and cursing myself for listening.

"I'm with Project Orpheus. We're a private research venture dedicated to advancing scientific knowledge of genetics and neuroscience. Our DNA and our brains. The two things that make us who we are.

"We're doing amazing things there, Adam." She whistles. "We're developing cutting-edge techniques: hormone-driven accelerated aging, artificial wombs, memory reconstruction. We've created implantable memory archiving chips that will be affordable to everyone. These are things that nobody else in the world is even close to attempting."

I shake my head. "I don't understand."

"Let me say this." She smiles. "Our ultimate goal is to give the world the greatest gift it will ever get. The ability to bring back the people we've lost. And we want to start with Sunshine."

I drop down onto the couch and let my phone fall from my hand. I want a drink, and then I want to go back to sleep. And when I wake up again, this will have been just another drunken dream, one that'll fade and leave me to the routine I've carved for myself in this post-Sunshine world.

"Don't screw with me, lady." My voice shakes and it pisses me off.

"I promise you I'm not." She sounds so sincere that my throat tightens. "What I'm offering isn't magic. Science can't bring Sunshine back from the dead, you understand. Flesh decays. But we have the" — she smiles a hesitation — "means to reconstruct the Sunshine that we all knew and loved. Exactly as she was."

Exactly, I think. "You're talking about ..."

She nods.

"Last time I checked" — which, okay, was maybe never — "we cloned sheep, not people."

"We're there now, Adam."

"Is that even legal?" I ask.

She shrugs. "Oh it's against, shall we say, the advice of the government. But we have a state-of-the-art facility in a private, offshore location."

"So it's illegal," I say.

She waves that away, as if it's a minor detail.

I sag back against the couch. "This is nuts."

"It is," she says. "But it's real."

We stare at each other for a minute while I try to process even a small fraction of this, while I try to process the fact that I'm even having this conversation.

"And you want to bring back Sunshine?" I finally say.

"Sunshine," she says, "is our ideal candidate. She's our proof of concept, Adam. There are thousands of people all over the country hooked up to MAP machines even as we speak, their memories saved and ready. And some of them — well, some of them have loved ones with very deep pockets who would pay anything for the ability to bring them back from the dead, memories and all. But they aren't going to just hand over their money on our word. If we can resurrect Sunshine, Adam, put her back on the world stage exactly as she was, that will be the ultimate validation of what we're doing."

"So you just bring back a dead girl, stick her on a stage, and ask her to sing? And then what? You tell the world she's a" — I hiccup over the word — "a clone? You tell her she's a clone?"

"No," she says. "Of course not. Discretion is in the best interest of everyone, most of all the people who will want this technology. And beyond that, there will be ironclad nondisclosure agreements. Our prospective clients are people who stand to lose a lot, Adam. They know how to keep their mouths shut."

"So you do what then?" I ask.

"Well, truths can be bent, and particularly in the instance of Sunshine, people are eager to believe." She pauses and then says, "So here's a for instance. Maybe Sunshine was weary of the spotlight. Maybe she faked her death, and now ... Now she's changed her mind, and she's ready to come back to the public that loved her."

She's right about this much: truths can be bent, and people believe what they want to believe. Including me.

"Now here's the thing. We've had the ability to recreate a physical body for years, even to artificially age it. And maybe that's enough for a pet — the body, the basic shell, the potential that exists in DNA. But a person? We aren't just genetics, Adam. The joys. The tragedies. Our collective experiences — our memories — that's what makes us who we are."

I take another breath. "Still listening."

"Good," she says. "I'm sure you're aware that before Sunshine was taken off life support, the hospital had her hooked into the MAP?"

Her question takes me instantly back to the hospital. I'm slouched in a chair in a dark-paneled office trying to listen to the doctor as he explains how the MAP, the Memory Archiving Port, a sort of neural computer, will download and preserve her memories, in case her brain swells, in case the cells are dying even now. If she wakes up, he tells me, and the pathways in her brain cant connect to the places that tell her who she is, where she's been, the MAP can return them to her. Except all I can hear is the word "if" — if she wakes up — and my brain is screaming, She's dying, she's dying, she's dying.


I pull myself back to the now and rake a hand through my hair. It feels greasy and way too long. "Yeah. I knew about the MAP."

"The MAP has another benefit. Sunshine may have died, but her memories didn't. We've acquired them, and we can implant those stored memories into a" — she meets my eyes — "into Sunshine. She'll know you. Her memories will be Sunshine's memories. Her thoughts will be what Sunshine — your Sunshine — would have thought."

"If you can do all this, then why are you here?" I narrow my eyes at her. Because here it comes. "You want Sunshine's money?"

"Money?" She surprises me by laughing. "No. And I will tell you this first. The project will go forward with or without you. No matter what you say, it's already started."

"You mean ...?" The words won't come.

"Her new body has been" — she hesitates — "born, created from nothing more than a few stolen skin cells, Adam. It — she — is currently undergoing an artificial aging process. We're already implanting memories into her, starting to form her into who she'll eventually become."

"Sunshine," I say.

She nods. "Sunshine."

Her words penetrate. But it's like those first few seconds after you cut yourself really badly, when you see the blood but you don't feel the pain.

"But here's our dilemma," she says. "Even with the MAP, after the oxygen deprivation from the drowning, some of Sunshine's memories are corrupted, incomplete. Have you ever watched television and had a blip in the cable signal? All of a sudden the screen fills with random pixels? That's pretty much what I'm talking about, and it could jeopardize our project. That's where you come in, Adam — completing her memory set. The person who knew her best of all." She looks at me as if I'm an adult, capable of making a decision, and not some reeking, hungover kid whose whole life has been an epic fail.

"Whatever your fucking-fantastic science can do, Dr. Whoever-You-Are, she's still dead. And I'll always know she's dead."

She doesn't answer, and she doesn't seem at all disturbed by my outburst. She leans over and rummages through her bag, pulling out a tablet and sliding it across the coffee table toward me. At the motion, the screen winks on.

She nods toward it. I hesitate and then pick it up.

The image on the screen is one I recognize. And well I should, since it made a tour of all the major media outlets a few months ago. It shows me on my knees by Marybeth's grave. But I wasn't crying. I was falling-down drunk.

"Keep going," the doctor says.

I want to tell her to go to hell, but instead I swipe to the next image, which is a black-and-white shot of me, fist ready, running at a cameraman. The caption reads: NO CHARGES PRESSED AGAINST GRIEVING GUITARIST.

I drop the tablet back onto the table.

"This can be a second chance for you too." She drops a business card on top of the tablet. It's completely blank except for a phone number. "And looking at the path you're on, you'd be foolish not to take it."


After Dr. Elloran leaves, the house feels strange. Maybe because every unbelievable word she spoke haunted this place with hope. But she didn't take the hope away with her when she left. Oh no. She left it here, and now it's like a goddamn ghost following me around.

Sunshine. Alive again.

Not Sunshine, my brain whispers. Marybeth.

This is crazy.

Sick crazy. A-worm-wriggling-around-my-brain crazy.

I walk from room to room, the Hope-Ghost drifting behind me. I don't know what I'm doing. But that's nothing new.

I pick up the business card and put it down again about thirty times.

From the closet, I grab my old laptop and plug it in. After it groans to life, I SmartSearch "Project Orpheus." But all that comes up is a dead link for some old band from like 2016.


Excerpted from Resurrecting Sunshine by Lisa A. Koosis. Copyright © 2016 Lisa A. Koosis. Excerpted by permission of Albert Whitman and Company.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Meet the Author

Lisa A. Koosis graduated from Long Island University with a degree in writing. A prize-winning short story writer, her fiction has appeared in numerous magazines and anthologies. Resurrecting Sunshine is her debut novel. Lisa lives in New York.

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Resurrecting Sunshine 4.4 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 5 reviews.
KathyMacMillan 3 days ago
This stunner of a story has largely flown under the radar, which is inconceivable to me. With its ethics-stretching premise and compelling plot, this book is ideal for bookclubs and classroom discussions: it’s a page-turner that keeps you engaged from the start, it’s got an ending that readers are sure to have strong opinions about, and it’s even in paperback, making multiple copies affordable. Get on this, teachers and librarians! Adam is a flawed, emotional mess, his voice keeping the science stuff firmly grounded in the effect it has on real people’s lives, and he is at once admirable and pitiable in his quest to do right by those he loves. This book kept me up late several nights in a row because I *had* to find out what happened next. With its big questions about who deserves a second chance, who actually gets one, and what do with the chances we’re given, RESURRECTING SUNSHINE will engage your mind and heart in equal measure.
hcv 9 days ago
Resurrecting Sunshine is a wonderful book about not only grief and loss (and cloning), but about memory, existence, and what makes us who we are. It goes beyond the question of "Can we really bring back the people we've lost?" to tackle the even harder question of "Should we?" Koosis creates a very real and complex character in Adam -- damaged, struggling with alcohol addiction, and somewhat prickly at times ... but also thoughtful, grief-stricken, and wanting to do the right thing by Marybeth, aka Sunshine. The storyline is full of twists and surprises, and will keep you guessing to the very end.
Kimmiepoppins 9 months ago
Resurrecting Sunshine is my favorite type of books--it's a story that makes you think. And it lingers with you long after you've closed the cover. On it's surface, Adam may seem like he's caught in the middle of a debate about the ethics of cloning (interesting in and of itself) but the questions raised by Koosis are much more complicated than that. As we follow the story of Sunshine's life and death, we being to ask ourselves about second chances, forgiveness, acceptance and love. And as it always happens with the most thought provoking books--the answers will often surprise you. Can't wait to see what Koosis writes next. I'm a fan.
Anonymous 11 months ago
I loved this fascinating novel. Fantastic character study and a fresh look at grief/holding onto memories and the past/letting go. Gorgeous writing and a very cool sci-fi concept. Highly recommend!
MissPrint 11 months ago
Adam Rhodes, Sunshine's boyfriend and backup guitarist, wishes he could process his grief in private for both rockstar Sunshine and the girl she used to be when she was still called Marybeth and they were growing up in foster care. Instead Adam settles for dulling his senses--and the pain--with alcohol. When Dr. Elloran shows up at Adam's door he expects her to be looking for a last piece of Sunshine. Instead, she offers Adam the impossible: Elloran plans to use cloning and Memory Archiving Port (MAP) technology to bring Sunshine back to prove to the world (and her investors) that Project Orpheus can resurrect the dead. The project will go forward with or without Adam, but if he plays along--helping this new Sunshine remember the final days of her life and restoring other degraded memories--he'll have the chance to see Marybeth again. And maybe this time he can keep Marybeth alive and well. As Adam remembers the tragedy that led to his and Sunshine's fame, he is forced to confront painful memories of her death and begins to question if bringing Marybeth along the same path is right for anyone in Resurrecting Sunshine (2016) by Lisa A. Koosis. Simplistic and utilitarian world building ground this science fiction novel in the near-future of 2026. While Koosis is careful to name all of the relevant technology (most notably MAP technology) but never explains it enough to provide the proper backdrop or urgency for the story. A slow start and weak execution detract from this potentially intriguing premise. Short chapters will appeal to reluctant readers willing to play along with the often tedious plot. Koosis raises some interesting questions about cloning, depression, and suicide but her prose falls short of insightful answers. Appealing for fans of this specific sub-genre of science fiction. Possible Pairings: Where She Went by Gayle Forman, Loss by Jackie Morse Kessler, The Cost of All Things by Maggie Lehrman, More Happy Than Not by Adam Silvera, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind