“I don’t know, Dad.”

“See? That’s exactly the problem!” His eyes lit up. “Pesaram. My son. You need to start thinking about your future. You could study engineering, or you could go to medical school. Those are both respectable fields. I just”—he threw his hands up—“I just want you to care about something, Scott. I can’t think of a single thing you’re gritty about. I’m not calling you a failure, but I only wonder if we should have kept you more focused.”

Clearly my dad was calling me a failure. I held my breath as a stream of shortcomings bogged down my mind. My grades. My SAT score. The Earth Club I let wither away like the ozone layer. The mystery novel I got bored with writing after three chapters. All those instruments I used to play.

“Are you paying attention?” he barked. “I need to know you’ll take this internship seriously while your mother and I are away. This is important.”

“Important for you or for me?”

His eyes jumped. “For you,” he said, forcing the words out slowly. “You’re almost an adult now.”

“If I’m almost an adult, then why can’t I go to Iran with you and Mom?”

“Here we go again. We’ll take you one day, I promise, but now isn’t the right time. It’s a critical summer for your future. And with everything going on with Baba Bozorg . . .”

We both got quiet. Dad broke the silence with two taps on the table.

“This is the right plan. You stay home and do your internship. We deal with Baba Bozorg’s health.” His voice cracked, and he forced a smile. “Don’t you always say we should trust you more? Well, here’s your trust. One month!”

“One month,” I repeated.

“June fourteenth to July fourteenth. Precisely one month. I asked the travel agent what kind of discount we would get for such a nice coincidence—”

“Dad, you’re so lame.”

“We’re coming back on your birthday! I believe that is the opposite of lame.”

“Uh-huh.”

“In fact, your mother and I are very cool. We suspect you might throw a birthday party with your fellow interns, and we are cool with that.”

“I’m the only intern. And I’m sure you’ll be calling twenty-four/seven.”

Dad dropped his buddy act. “One phone call a week, that’s all. Look, we’re trying to meet you halfway. Please, focus on your internship.”

I didn’t have it in me to keep arguing, so as usual, I gave up. “Okay, Dad. I’ll do the stupid internship.”

We sat there silently for the rest of breakfast like boxers with their foreheads pressed together, dripping sweat, too tired to throw the last punch. I didn’t finish my eggs. Instead, I imagined my parents in the airplane to Iran, gazing out the pressurized window at the chalky sky and everything beyond it—stars and galaxies and dark matter–type craziness. I imagined the big bang, which created our scattered universe: scattered, but acceptable. Indefinitely incomplete.

I wondered: Why aren’t I allowed to be indefinitely incomplete, too?