This was the first time an idea Henry had held with such unwitting conviction was dashed by a system to which he had no other choice but to submit. Despite previously exhibited abilities, which had earned him the title of gifted early on, this childhood mistake sparked a revolt against and suppression of the aptitudes that he’d inherited from his parents. Their fascination with the realm of ideas that had begun oozing through him was a gash to be cauterized. Theories and abstractions discussed at the dinner table penetrated him by some passive, verbal osmosis, all of which he later came to revile, dismissing them as pedantic classification games, glib tournaments of rhetoric. Schoolwork had always come so easily to him, and so he instead trained the sum of his energies on the challenges of the immediate and sensory. If he couldn’t wring or caress it in his own two hands or feel it gurgling in his chest, he would forgo any speculation and have nothing to do with it. And now, holding this old photograph and shriveling with loneliness, he heard his stomach growl. He was famished.

He fried two eggs and threw them over a bowl of cold rice he scraped out of the countertop cooker. White rice was another constant. In the kitchen, Mom’s repertoire had been limited but sufficient, a consistent rotation of meatloaf, lemon chicken breast, beef stroganoff, and veggie soufflé, every batch made in quantities that ensured at least two days’ worth of leftovers. Whatever the dish, Papa required white rice for a side, even with Mom’s spicy Bolognese. After she’d died, dinner duty fell to Papa, who dished up mounds of white rice, heavily salted and freckled with fried garlic, accompanied by either seared slices of Spam or his hot dog stir fry: chopped pink cylinders sautéed in a wok with onions and a can of sweet corn. Or, on the evenings when even just ten minutes in front of the stove was asking too much, he would splurge on a twenty pack of McNuggets, next to which he set the rice pot and a bottle of Jufran banana ketchup.

Even though Henry knew little and remembered even less about the Philippines, he still ate the Filipino way. Left hand gripping a fork to rake meat and rice into a tablespoon in the right. Over the scrape of a yolky spoon, he heard an engine grumbling outside, too robust to be Papa’s pickup. Soon the front door creaked, but nobody stepped in.

“Henry,” came Papa’s voice. “Get out here. Now, ah.”

What now? Henry lobbed the bowl into the kitchen sink, almost disappointed when it didn’t shatter. Making his way outside, he didn’t bother to get dressed. All dignity had been stripped from him last night anyway, so he stepped onto the driveway barefoot, wearing nothing but the boxers he’d fallen asleep in.