If what gripped you in On Such a Full Sea was following Fan—an unassuming fish-tank diver from B-Mor—through a subdued, eerie future shaped more by rules and rumors than ray guns, Never Let Me Go hits the same nerve. Like Fan’s search for Reg amid Charter privilege and Open Counties chaos, Kathy H.’s recollections slowly reveal an unsettling system that governs bodies and fates. The suspense comes not from gadgets but from the dawning realization of how the world has arranged these lives—and how tenderness and loyalty persist within it.

B-Mor’s regimented safety, the opulence of the Charters, and the lawless Open Counties form a ladder of power that Fan must climb and evade. In The Water Knife, the American Southwest has its own brutal hierarchy: water barons, corporate enforcers, and desperate migrants. If you felt the menace in Fan’s journey outside B-Mor’s fences, you’ll recognize the knife’s-edge choices here—where a single pipeline deal can decide who thrives behind walls and who scrounges beyond them.

Fan leaves B-Mor’s relative stability to cross the Open Counties in search of Reg, repeatedly colliding with the wealth and security hoarded by Charter towns. Parable of the Sower mirrors that journey: Lauren Olamina ventures north along shattered highways, confronting walled enclaves and predatory economies. If the contrast between B-Mor’s communal order and Charter excess sharpened the injustice for you, Butler’s road novel deepens that critique while following a determined young woman who builds community as she goes.

The collective “we” of B-Mor weighs Fan’s choices against the value of stability, asking what a community owes an individual—and vice versa—after Reg’s disappearance and Fan’s pregnancy upend the norm. The Children of Men probes similar questions as society falters: Who gets protected? What justifies authoritarian order? If you appreciated how Fan’s legend lets B‑Mor interrogate hope, obligation, and the costs of safety, James’s elegant dystopia will give you that same reflective, unsettling echo.

One of the most striking parts of On Such a Full Sea is how B‑Mor’s collective “we” turns Fan’s trek beyond the fences into a communal myth—admitting rumor, gaps, and projection as they narrate her. The Virgin Suicides uses the same choral perspective: neighborhood boys reconstruct the Lisbon sisters’ lives from fragments and obsession. If that distant, fascinated storytelling lens drew you in—where the narrator is part witness, part creator of legend—Eugenides delivers it with aching precision.