Where it starts
I was twelve, in a friend's hallway, in my shoes and my coat, and something had gone quietly wrong.
There was no step. The house had no line in it anywhere — no place where the day ended and the home began.
Everyone here calls me Ken. My mother still calls me Kenichi. I have now lived in America longer than I lived in Japan, which makes me the wrong person to romanticise either country and the right person to measure the wall between them.
You have seen the videos where somebody folds a sweater into thirds and tells you to thank it. This is not that. Under every habit Americans call Japanese discipline, I found a floor plan, a law, a fee, a schedule, or a tax code that made the decision for everyone. And under every American habit I have never been able to explain — ice in everything, the mailbox at the end of the driveway, the garage door used as the front door — I found the same thing. A pipe. A code. A marketing department.
Nobody in either country chose any of it. That is the book.



