I turn off my video mid-Zoom. Outside, the moon palms its time card, apron already hung up. The wall sweats; even the air struggles to breathe. Twelve hours behind, my CEO whirs onscreen, part time-traveler, part sentient Patagonia vest. OKRs, he chants, metrics. Dad pops in to ask if I want a Nescafé, but I mime holding a phone to my ear. Besides, it’s practically bedtime: the sun pulling into the parking lot, reaching for the trinkets crowning my childhood desk. The frogs near their outro. We have big goals ahead of us, says my CEO, and I agree, counting down the days until I fly home: seven more breakfasts for dinner, eight more times scowling at my mother through eyecrust. Here I am: a backache, a black hole haunting every hour, wondering if this will be my last trip. My CEO flips through charts: lines snaking up and to the right, tendrils and vines straining for my attention. My eyes wander out to the back garden—though I should really call it Mom and Dad’s, the jungle of their lives having grown over the maw of me. The treetops sway green. Meanwhile, my CEO smiles, says, I am so excited for what’s next. I think of the work ahead: the care packages I don’t send, all the WhatsApp calls I should make but don’t, the voice messages and the airline miles etching themselves deeper into Mom’s face, almost more pixel than flesh. The call ends, the laptop bluing my face. I walk to the window, pull down the blinds. The mynahs whoop. A gecko replies, tick-ticking into the silence.