Whenever I go back home, I’m relegated to a blow-up mattress in the dining room. I’m hidden only by the couch, which is almost always occupied. With my dad recently retired, Netflix has become the third in my parents’ marriage. I find myself glued to the TV too, mired in self-indulgent inertia. My dad, a bourgeoisie socialist, says something about how America has it coming, and I suddenly can’t with the revolutionary rhetoric. Not today, Stalin. I drive down to a nature reserve, feeling smug that I’m switching off from the TV for the first time in days.