I try my best to stay awake during the drive by blasting songs in my head. I roll down my windows and spike my adrenaline by mentally preparing for the Tower argument I know my dad will want to have. To be fair, my parents were freaked. In fifth grade, Tommy Sotto’s chip misfired and he started glitching at the back of class. There were the cancer scares, the smart-car crashes, the hacked pets, then the voting hijacking, and suddenly my parents’ generation did an about-face. They imposed sanctions, chained the FCC, and hobbled innovation. We watched month-long congressional hearings on TV instead of investing in technology. And what did we get from their stalling? China. But even this argument doesn’t keep me from closing my eyes while I drive. Eventually, I pull into a gas station, pay for another meditation download, and try to get some rest.

I still feel like a zombie when I arrive at my parents’ place. Dinner goes pretty much how I expected. My dad keeps putting down my job, telling me there’s no future in advice slinging, but I’m so sleepy that his voice just sounds like waves, the air rippling with his words.

“Have some more potatoes,” my mother says, passing me the dish. “Russets are on sale at Kroger’s—five pounds for fifty dollars.”

“Thanks,” I say and take the plate heaped with soft white mashers. I imagine placing my head in them and sleeping. “Dad,” I yawn, rubbing my eyes, “things are good. My job pays for my apartment and food. Maybe it’s not perfect but—”

“Have you been listening to a single thing I’ve said? You need to move away from here.”

“Are you a summer person or a winter person?” my mother asks me.

“There are places in South America where expats are settling,” my dad says, ignoring her.

“You’re kidding, right? I’m not moving to South America.”

“Listen to me,” my father says. “You need to go while you still can. The water’s gone, the air is going, the birds are dying, there are no jobs left, and—”

“Dad, stop being so gloom-and-doom. Things are getting better. In African villages, kids who never would’ve had access to a college education are watching fully immersive neurosurgery tutorials behind their closed eyes. Feminist literature is being streamed into the minds of girls who’ve been kept illiterate, and we’re offering jobs to millions of people in the third world who can now produce clothing at a virtual distance while never having to work in the sweatshop factories of your era.”

“Would you say you’re a dog person or a cat person?” my mother asks me.

“Mom, why are you asking—”