The Dream of Doctor Bantam

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But this novel is built on odd directions, strangeness, darkness, sudden violence and the wildness of youth.

The presentation of the book is similarly intriguing, with punkish, hand-drawn illustrations fronting each of the long sections, and an intermission in the middle. Your email address will not be published. Notify me of follow-up comments by email. Notify me of new posts by email.

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Nick, a former credit broker, and Elyse, who worked in asset management, survived the financial crash of on Wall Street. Their worlds still upended, they decided to take control of their careers. Owning your own business wasn't really glamorous," Nick says.

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After Nick dreamt up the bagel balls, the couple started tinkering with recipes in their Brooklyn kitchen. Nearly every night for two years, they came home from work around 6, made dough in a KitchenAid mixer, and set it to rise in the laundry cabinet, which had the right humidity. She said the New York bagel had never been turned on its head before. Bantam Bagels come in nearly two dozen flavors, ranging from the Classic Everything filled with plain, whipped cream cheese to the French Toast, a cinnamon nutmeg egg bagel stuffed with maple syrup-flavored cream cheese.

They toast in the oven for six minutes.

The Oleksaks applied to appear on their favorite reality TV show "a hundred times," Nick says. When a "Shark Tank" producer finally invited them on in , the couple wrote study guides in preparation.

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They watched every episode, quizzed each other on long walks, and even devised body language signals, so they could communicate silently while on camera. They hoped to win over shark Lori Greiner, a seasoned product entrepreneur, and they did just that. She told herself that she would go back down any second now as she climbed the steps. Photographs of Paris streets, no frames to them, had been Scotch-taped at even intervals along the narrow walls; reflections of pink, yellow, green, and blue glowed in the gloss of each black-and-white print.

She left the door open to the porch as she climbed. Each step had an echo and from somewhere below the staircase she swore she could hear the rust and springs.

She stepped off of the staircase and onto the landing. The door to the apartment had long ago been painted red; filtered through the Christmas lights, the places where the paint had come off in wide flakes fluoresced in many colors like loosened, corrupted skin on the victim of some rare tropical fever. No answer. She knocked again, then jiggled the knob. It jiggled easily; the door of the apartment was unlocked.

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She knocked a third time, then turned the knob and opened the door. How far did she want to take this?

And when would she have an opportunity like this again? And did these questions, in the end, contribute to one another?

The apartment was no brighter than the staircase; heavy velvet drapes on the window choked out all but a wafer of sunlight. Each bar stool held an old tuna can lined with cigarette butts. On the walls were more black-and-white photographs, three per wall, evenly spaced out along three of the four walls.

She circled the walls, looking at the photographs. She made it halfway around the room, five photos in, before she frowned and went back to the first wall, the north one. The south wall was the same.