I’m hereby declaring the airport bookstore cinematic universe “a thing.” There are two layers to this mysterious microclimate: first, the books you seemingly only see at airports; I’ve referenced Pachinko as a category leader here before.

Second, and this one is personal to me (though others may recognize similar patterns in their own lives): books that aren’t “hot” in the circles I frequent for recommendations, but appeal as ringers to fly through in the free moments of your travels; ideal when you realize that you’re not going to read Sapiens on the beach in Spain. Yes, I was once hubristic enough to fall prey to that line of thinking. The previously reviewed Cloisters was one such book for me, in fact.

Over the years, I’ve discovered some of my favorite books this way: The Other Boleyn Girl, purchased on the way to Greece, in seventh grade, birthed my lifelong obsession with Tudor history; Lipstick Jungle validated my dream of becoming Editor-in-Chief of a women’s magazine (watch this space). I still have my well-worn copy of David Nicholls One Day, purchased from the only English bookstore I could find in southern Spain in 2005, still one of the most wonderfully realistic rom-coms I’ve ever read.

Previously, I’d never categorize a book I didn’t actually pick up at the airport as a member of the ABCU (Airport Bookstore Cinematic Universe. Still with me?). Recently, however, I read a book that I loved, but wouldn’t necessarily have picked up on my own. My sister-in-law lent it to me, and she had gotten the recommendation of a friend who had read it on a vacation. And therein lies part 1 of the ABCU connection.

So, what else qualifies it? The Read with Jenna sticker. The cover. And the fact that it’s compulsively readable without being “trashy” (although I’ve always bristled against that elitist and sexist categorization, typically reserved by male snobs for books written by women). As far as ACBU books go, this one was certainly readable, but also particularly thought-provoking. And because all ACBU books eventually serve a larger function in my life, I do wonder if this is one that will help me reshuffle the way I look at death. A tall order for an ACBU book, but, I think, the right one for the job.

The Measure opens with the scene most books might save for the climax: one morning, every citizen in the world over the age of 22 wakes up with a box outside their door. The box is engraved with the words “the measure of your life lies within” and each contains a string customized to the individual. The length of the string correlates to the length of your life. Though everyone is desperate to believe otherwise, it only takes a few years of measuring data for scientists to determine that the measures are accurate: which leaves all those with “short strings” in despair.

The Measure follows the lives of a group of people, almost all connected by their short strings and weekly meetings in a “living with your short string” support group, and their partners - most of whom are “long-stringers,” as they come to call themselves. Then there are the relatives of said short stringers-almost none of them have opened their own boxes. As people attempt to adjust to living with the weight of this knowledge, society begins to unravel: with long-stringers attempting to preclude short-stringers from government positions; short-stringers despairing over whether it’s fair for them to have children, and couples unable to decide whether it’s worth staying together if one string is short and the other is long (Editor’s Note: feels very cruel that someone would break up with someone solely for having a short string, but feel free to fight me on this if you disagree).

Like I said, you’ll fly through it. Once you do, let me know if you’d open your box.