“What do you mean you’re leaving? Where are you going?”

“Peru,” he says. “The last of the Andes are still standing. There’s a place where the Towers haven’t reached. We don’t have much left, but the house is on the market and we got a bid last week. It’s not a great bid, but it’s enough to get us all down there and live for a couple of years.”

“And do what?”

“Survive,” my father says, and my mother arrives, humming a dating-site jingle, bringing chocolate cake for us all.

When dessert’s finished, my parents walk me to the door and we hug goodbye. It feels weird to actually touch them again instead of thought-embracing. My father puts his hand on my shoulder, his breath condensing in the cold night. “Come with us,” he says.

The snow has started falling, the flakes landing against our jackets. “I’m cold, Dad. I’m going to go.”

“Please,” he says again. “Tell me you’ll consider it. I’ll reach out to you soon, just actually listen to my thoughts.” My mom starts with her quiz questions again, so I promise I’ll consider it. And then, before either of them can say anything else, I start up my car, put it in reverse, and pull out of the driveway, watching my parents stand there, waving a last time before they’re gone.