Tantalum and tungsten, Father says, are going to make us exceptionally rich. The three of us are sitting at the table in the basement; Father is turning the circuit boards and processors in his hands. It’s the biggest load we’ve ever hauled in our trailer, from one of the villages in the plain today. We’re the best entrepreneurs in the western hemisphere; no one has ever taken a robust in anthracite apart faster. How did it once hum and whirr under some desk, doing its work? Berti and I pry the contacts from the motherboards. Until Mother calls us upstairs for dinner we make two small piles, one of tungsten sheets and one of cobalt. The cobalt sheets crackle the best. Later in the kitchen Mother gives me a kiss on the forehead and says: My big girl. Then we eat Mother’s lasagna with braised carrots. Father tells a story about our farm in New Zealand, he says: Sheep are very quiet animals, they can predict rain, you’ll like it there. How do sheep do that? Berti asks. No one knows, Father says. Berti does the math on how much jingle money we’ll soon have, based on our entrepreneurship, and says that it will be much, much more than we have at present, for which reason our departure is finally approaching. Mother runs her hand through his hair, then it’s: bathe, pee, goodnight kiss.