{"product_id":"free-radicals-isbn-9780593407714","title":"Free Radicals","description":"\u003cb\u003eAfghan-American Mafi’s sophomore year gets a whole lot more complicated when she accidentally exposes family secrets, putting her family back in Afghanistan in danger in this smartly written YA debut.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSixteen-year-old Mafi Shahin is well-aware that life is not always fair. If it was fair, her parents might allow her to hang out with a member of the male species, other than her cat Mr. Meowgi. If it was fair, her crush and basketball hottie Jalen Thomas might see her as more than just her brother's kid sister. And if it was fair, her baba’s brother and wife would be able to leave Afghanistan and come to America.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLife might not be fair—but she can make it a bit more even. Working as the Ghost of Santa Margarita High, Mafi serves dollops of justice on her classmates’ behalf as the school’s secret avenger. They leave a note declaring the crime and Mafi ensures the offender receives an anonymous karmic-sized dose of payback. Keeping her identity as the Ghost a secret sometimes means Mafi has to lie. But as those lies begin to snowball both at school and at home, even compromising their family’s secret past and putting their relatives back in Afghanistan at risk, Mafi is forced to decide how she wants to live her life—trying to make the world more fair from the shadows or loudly and publicly standing up for what’s right.\u003cb\u003e\u003cu\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eFree Radicals\u003c\/i\u003e:\u003c\/u\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e★\u003c\/b\u003e “Riesen’s debut is a \u003cb\u003erich, multifaceted story \u003c\/b\u003ethat . . . interweaves racism and discrimination, immigration and injustice, sexism and double standards, family expectations and intergenerational trauma, and more, all written to great effect and with a broadly diverse supporting cast. \u003cb\u003eA smart, powerful, poignant tale of identity, freedom, and family.\u003c\/b\u003e” —\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003cb\u003estarred review\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e★\u003c\/b\u003e ““By deploying a \u003cb\u003ehealthy dose of sharp humor\u003c\/b\u003e across a \u003cb\u003epacey plot\u003c\/b\u003e that’s populated by \u003cb\u003ean intersectionally diverse cast\u003c\/b\u003e, Riesen crafts an \u003cb\u003eemphatic and empathetic\u003c\/b\u003e debut that doesn’t shy away from exploring grave themes such as imperialism, intergenerational trauma, war, and xenophobia.” —\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003cb\u003estarred review\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eFree Radicals\u003c\/i\u003e is a deeply moving and keenly drawn story of courage, resilience and familial love, filled with tenderness, heart, romance, and hilarity. Lila Riesen is a talent to watch.”—\u003cb\u003eJeff Zentner\u003c\/b\u003e, award-winning author of \u003ci\u003eThe Serpent King\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Sharp, funny, and written with fierce love. This book is a hand over the heart and a nod to hope for the future of Afghanistan. It is impossible not to fall in love with Mafi, Raf, and Jalen. I laughed with and ached for these characters. Riesen’s story is a heartfelt song for Afghanistan.”—\u003cb\u003eJulia Walton\u003c\/b\u003e, author of \u003ci\u003eWords on Bathroom Walls\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“In this\u003cb\u003e modern tale\u003c\/b\u003e of a young Afghan American girl coming to terms with her identity. . . Riesen \u003cb\u003eraises awareness\u003c\/b\u003e of issues many young adults experience, such as family drama, xenophobia, racism, prejudice, and trolling. \u003cb\u003eTeens will relate\u003c\/b\u003e to the protagonist’s struggles to build trust and be honest with others, all the while carrying trauma.” —\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003cb\u003eWhip-smart, heart-rending and often hilarious\u003c\/b\u003e . . . this \u003cb\u003ecompelling \u003c\/b\u003edebut novel by Lila Riesen, calling upon her own experience as a biracial Afghan-American teenager. . . offers an \u003cb\u003eunforgettable \u003c\/b\u003ecoming-of-age tale in this \u003cb\u003epoignant\u003c\/b\u003e novel of a family trying to start anew in the U.S. and caught up in the tragic fallout of the turmoil in Afghanistan.” —\u003ci\u003eThe Buffalo News\u003c\/i\u003eThe daughter of Afghan and Australian immigrants, Lila Riesen was raised in the United States. Her undergraduate studies in English were completed at Indiana University and the Australian National University. In 2017, Lila graduated with a master’s degree in English literature and linguistics from the University of Zurich in Switzerland. Free Radicals is her first novel, inspired by her cashew-coveting baba and all the Afghans fighting for peace, in the US and abroad.1\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I have four rules as Ghost.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Don’t get caught rooting around in the SOL tree. Never reveal my identity. Ensure justice is served without police involvement. And most important . . . don’t get emotionally invested.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn the fall of my sophomore year, I broke every rule.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRafi has \u003ci\u003eIt \u003c\/i\u003eover again. America and its paper-thin walls.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMom and Dad are downstairs and I know they can hear it, too. But Rafi’s the firstborn male in our Afghan family, so when the chandelier shakes in the living room, Dad pretends it’s Mr. Meowgi galumphing upstairs, orange belly swaying. And it’s not like Baba notices much; he’s nodded off on his pea-green rocker listening to ancient rubab music on his equally ancient Walkman.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eChunky as he is, the cat can’t make the chandelier shake like that.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMom drowns the noise by vacuuming the Daulatabad rugs with the circles, triangles, and tassels, \u003cbr\u003elost in her own Geometric Daulatabad Dimension of Denial, soon rousing Baba and cueing his usual “Watch the fringe, the \u003ci\u003efringe\u003c\/i\u003e! Your baba brought the rug all the way from—”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Kabul, yes, yes.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMom’s thinking about her son, upstairs, yesterday only a smiley squish splashing in the kitchen sink, now seventeen and untamable, putting his girlfriend’s \u003ci\u003emy body my choice\u003c\/i\u003e into action. \u003ci\u003eIt. \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd \u003ci\u003eIt\u003c\/i\u003e chose Rafi.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI say \u003ci\u003eIt\u003c\/i\u003e because she’s basically this thing that’s attached herself to my brother. It wasn’t always like that.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGod forbid if I brought a guy over. No boy—friend or no—has been allowed past the threshold and upstairs to my room. They can only sit on the curb, like stray dogs.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eBaba \u003c\/i\u003eusually means \u003ci\u003eDad \u003c\/i\u003ein Farsi, but in our house, Baba is my grandfather, Father of Fathers. Being who he is, it’s \u003ci\u003eBaba’s way or the highway\u003c\/i\u003e, and Baba thinks dogs are nejin. Unclean.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTired of Mom’s obnoxious vacuuming, I fill Dad’s colossal UC Irvine Mathematics Dept. mug with jumbo marshmallows and homemade hot cocoa, my favorite fall creation. Then retire upstairs to my room, slather on one of those clay face masks, and shut-ish the door, since Dad gets mad when our bedroom doors are closed. Rafi’s ignoring the \u003ci\u003edoor open!\u003c\/i\u003e rule tonight, and thank god.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI rummage for my headphone case in a pile of dirty laundry, pull up Spotify, and wheedle out the dog-eared California DMV manual from underneath my A\u0026amp;P textbook. Baba likes to remind me he failed his driver’s test twice before he got his license. I cannot, \u003ci\u003ewill not\u003c\/i\u003e, follow in the old man’s footsteps. Because driver’s license = freedom. And freedom = boys.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOne boy in particular.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHonestly, the DMV should’ve failed Baba on his third attempt. When he backs out of the drive, he putters onto the wrong side of the street, flamenco music blasting from the blown-out speakers.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“California’s Basic Speed Law says . . .” I read aloud, then gingerly tip the mug to my lips; spongy marshmallows tickle my nose.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eTap! Tap!\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eBlergh!\u003c\/i\u003e—cocoa dribbles down my chin. Through the window’s sheer curtain crouches a stooped silhouette.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAbout the no-guy rule: Cole Dawicki is the only exception. Not that he counts. First, he’s my neighbor. Second, he’s a pubescent.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCole brings me letters once or twice a month, depending on the season, maybe three times. Especially come fall because that’s when everyone at Santa Margarita North crawls over each other like the undead looking for a beating heart in a pile of bodies. So fall is cheating season and winter, breakup season. Why smash the piggy bank to buy a gift for your S.O. if you’re gonna call it quits anyway?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy classmates, whatever shenanigans they get up to, they leave the Final Ruling to the Ghost.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMe, Mafi Shahin.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd if found guilty, Ghosting—my brand of it, anyway—is worth shattering the piggy bank for.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e2\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn the glow of the desk lamp that pours onto the roof, Cole’s face is splotched in the telltale reds and purples of exertion. He’s panting from tearing around on his bike and climbing the oak tree. Wind turns his XL gray sweatshirt into a parachute. Cole wants to be a baller like Rafi, but Coach Gordan told him he needs to grow before high school. So his rationale is if he sizes up, the Baller Genie will help him fill out his clothes overnight like she did for my big brother.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI know Cole’ll be a heartthrob one day but I feel pervy thinking about it. The kid’s twelve.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Beavers?” he says with a snide look at my pajama bottoms.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe doesn’t say anything about the witchy green clay mask.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCole smells like rain and smoke. Mrs. Dawicki’s cigarette smoke’s inlaid in all the furniture in his house. His bedding. His dog. In Cole, too. Smoked while she was pregnant with him. I overheard Mom gossiping about it with my big sister, Kate, when she visited from UCLA.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAccording to Grandma, Kate is not a proper Afghan name. Dad chose it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut now it’s only Baba who wants us to be Afghan, anyway. Just say  \u003ci\u003eAfghanistan \u003c\/i\u003eout loud and Dad will turn into a turnip. Meanwhile, Mom wants us to be whoever we want, but says \u003ci\u003elife is easier without men, without boyfriends\u003c\/i\u003e. Whatever that means.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Note, Coleslaw.” I cinch my robe, suspicious of Cole’s downturned chin—where those big eyes might be looking from underneath his rain-spattered hood. This is a drive-thru transaction. Get the notes, hand over the cash, and buh-bye.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eNote—s,\u003c\/i\u003e” Cole says.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis scrawny sweatshirted arm slips through the window, clutching two folded notes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e“Two?”\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe doesn’t let go. “Ten dollars.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Hell no!”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI let go so quickly he has to catch himself. The little gremlin.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Heavens,” he says, hand fluttering over his heart. “I’m just a child, you know. Let’s break it down . . . five extra for climbing the tree,” he says, matter-of-factly, like a lawyer. A learned tactic from watching Mr. Dawicki prepare for court. “With this flimsy branch, I could get you for negligence. I mean—” He tugs on the branch and it creaks. “\u003ci\u003eAnd\u003c\/i\u003e you’ve got me going into the woods in the middle of the night. Trespassing on school property, you know.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“It’s eight thirty!”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Bedtime’s nine.” He flashes his gap-toothed smile. Cole’s mom nearly put him in braces but Cole talked her out of it; he said the gap gives him an edge. Twelve-year-olds are already worried about being edgy these days.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCole knows he’s got me. I need those notes. If he reads them, my life as I know it—\u003ci\u003eGhost\u003c\/i\u003e in the shadows—could be over. If he connects the dots, that is. The kid’s smart, and even though he doesn’t go to SMN yet, I can’t chance it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI’ve made being invisible a superpower. But Cole doesn’t need to know any of that to be my efficient sidekick. And no one can know about our Courier-Ghost arrangement.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Jesus. Fine.” I pray my voice is steady. These kids can sniff out fear.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCole’s changed. When he was in sixth grade, he was my doe-eyed courier. He’d get the notes from the SOL tree and bring them to me, no questions asked. He’s wising up as a seventh grader. Money won’t satisfy him forever.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt’s called the SOL tree because if your name ends up in the knot . . . you’re Shit Outta Luck. Everyone knows it. Karma has spoken. Karma being me. I’m the Ghost of Santa Margarita North. Only no one at SMN knows it’s me doing the pranks.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA light flicks on across the street and streams through the branches. With an anxious look toward home, Cole snaps his fingers. “C’mon, Mom’ll notice.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Ughhh.” I open my desk drawer and slip him ten dollars. Cole flattens the bill on a roof tile, then holds it up to the moonlight. His hood slips off to reveal straight black hair.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“It’s not Monopoly money,” I say. “I’m good for it.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWithout donations left in the notes, I wouldn’t be able to pay Cole. I don’t know what he’s saving for, but I’ve never seen him spend a dime. He keeps everything in his Velcro wallet with the black butterfly on front.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe gives me a sideways look. “You know, you can have it back if you tell me who’s writing to y—”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eNotes\u003c\/i\u003e, Coleslaw.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWith a \u003ci\u003eyour loss \u003c\/i\u003eshrug, Cole pockets the money and flings the notes into my room. I catch them in midair, cursing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOne is written on heavy paper, the expensive kind from Paper Source. The other, composition grade.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI turn my back to Cole. I don’t want him to see it, this energy that runs through me whenever I’ve got one in my hand. Excitement. Fear. Who will be next?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCole’s shoes squeak, heel reflectors winking in the dark. Perched at the edge of the roof, he makes a move for the tree branch, swaying in the breeze.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere’s a chill in the air tonight. November’s almost here. We’re about to go on the holiday roller coaster. First, Halloween. Thanksgiving. Christmas. New Year’s.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCole used to say bye. Not anymore.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI miss the kid I used to babysit. The one who didn’t straighten his hair. The one who squealed when I chased him with the garden hose. The one whose second-grade showcase project was about the conservation of monarch butterflies, something he felt so passionate about he cried when a girl stamped on the paper wings we’d cut together with serrated craft scissors.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEvery year, I’ve gotta get to know the kid all over again. Is this how it is to be a mother?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere’s a weighty bonk and a muffled giggle on the other side of my bedroom wall.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eIt\u003c\/i\u003e is still here. And Cole heard it, too.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis hand falls from the branch. “Oh, \u003ci\u003ebrother\u003c\/i\u003e,” he says, amused.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Cole, don’t—”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe crouches, crab-walking past my window . . . \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eOi!\u003c\/i\u003e” My arm flails. There’s the brush of his sweatshirt against my fingertips. I can’t go after him. I’m barefooted and the contractors left nails half-hammered all over the roof—toe mines. Sometimes I wonder if Dad told them to do it on purpose to prevent us kids from sneaking out.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “It’s a no-go anyway,” Cole whispers below Rafi’s window. “Curtain’s shut. Wait . . .” He’s spotted the old silver BMW in the driveway. “\u003ci\u003eIt\u003c\/i\u003e again? You must be haaaating this.” He laughs in a chorus of pubescent croaks and squeaks.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCole says \u003ci\u003eagain\u003c\/i\u003e like that because my bro and \u003ci\u003eIt \u003c\/i\u003ebreak up like every other week.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBefore last year, Raf was nothing but a benchwarmer and  \u003ci\u003eIt\u003c\/i\u003e ignored him. He was put on the radar when he basically became a giant (the dude grew a foot in a year) and Coach Gordan tripped over himself to put Rafi in the starting lineup.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNow six foot eight and a center, Raf’s King of the Court at Santa Margarita North—along with the other Ball Giants.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut Big Bro leaves skid marks on his tighty-whities, and that’s knowledge no one can take from me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCole’s laugh swells in the night.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDownstairs, the vacuum’s concluded its fringe-chomping quest. Every time \u003ci\u003eIt \u003c\/i\u003ecomes over, the rug fringe looks like Meowgi when he had a showdown with Nutter Butter, the squirrel that lives in the tree outside my window. He got his name after I woke to the thief helping himself to a Nutter Butter left on my desk.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIf the wind carries Cole’s laughter into the living room window . . . Dad’s a \u003ci\u003eno weapons\u003c\/i\u003e type of guy, but Baba does have some ancient pulwar sword mounted above his bed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eShh! \u003c\/i\u003eDamnit, Cole!”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Reeeelax,” Cole says. “It’s nothing I haven’t seen online before.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eEw.\u003c\/i\u003e You’re like—eight.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs his former babysitter, a burning rises in my chest. I’ve got an urge to scold him for watching porn at such a young age. But I was twelve, too, when I first watched it with my best friend. \u003cbr\u003eWell, ex–best friend now.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCole won’t budge from Rafi’s window, hopeful the curtain will miraculously swish. There’s sniggering coming from the other side now, which means it’s likely over.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere’s another\u003ci\u003e thump \u003c\/i\u003eand I cringe.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePart of this is Dad’s fault; he bought Raf a king bed since his calves stuck halfway off the twin like hairy tree trunks. More space, more room to romp with \u003ci\u003eIt\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Ope, it’s a boob!” Cole squeaks in his maniacal voice, to get a rise out of me. “I saw boob!”\u003cbr\u003e It works.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e“COLE DAWICKI!”\u003c\/i\u003e I whisper. There’s nothing worse than when a kid disobeys orders and there’s not a damn thing you can do about it. He hobbles past my window again, fist-bumps my head with a \u003ci\u003e“Pew,” \u003c\/i\u003eand leaps for the branch.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI want to tell him to stop swinging like an orangutan, to be careful. Instead, I say, “I can find another courier, you know.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Just say \u003ci\u003emessenger,\u003c\/i\u003e” he says, anchoring his foot on the branch below. “You’re turning into \u003cbr\u003eKate.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“You take that back!”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“You’re turning into Kate, Rafi’s sis! Accept it!”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e“Rafi’s sis?”\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCole shrugs. “Jalen says it sometimes.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“He talks about me?” I place a hand on the ledge.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCole snickers and rests his chin on the branch. “Not you, too.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“What?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e“You like JT.”\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJalen Thomas.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAka walking thirst trap. Junior. And to top it off, hella smart. A ball player at SMN, so a quick thinker by nature.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I don’t”—then realizing I don’t need to explain myself to a middle schooler—“you’re the one who follows him everywhere.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“We’re friends,” Cole says in a \u003ci\u003eduh\u003c\/i\u003e sort of way.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Uhhh, seventeen-year-olds aren’t friends with middle schoolers.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Jalen’s not like other guys, Rafi’s sis.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI’ve got nothing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJalen’s invited Cole for sleepovers, and vice versa. It’s not weird. It’s just—Jalen.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Don’t call me \u003ci\u003eRafi’s sis\u003c\/i\u003e, Coleslaw!”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut he’s still singing his little jig as he shimmies down the tree. \u003ci\u003e“Rafi’s sis, sis,  sis.”\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI hold my breath. The tree shakes. Then there’s the unmistakable  \u003ci\u003efwump\u003c\/i\u003e of shoes against dirt. I \u003cbr\u003eexhale.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShoulders hunched, Cole’s scrawny figure skulks across the street, sneaker reflectors flashing with each step. One, two. One, two.","brand":"Nancy Paulsen Books","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46301288300773,"sku":"NP9780593407714","price":19.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780593407714.jpg?v=1767727671","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/free-radicals-isbn-9780593407714","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}