I was an American boy living in Iran before everything changed.

Prologue

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We held a family vote, and moving to Iran won.

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An hour and a half earlier, we sat down at the dinner table. I was usually the last to sit. Mom, Dad, and my older brothers, Chris and Andrew, were already there. Taco night. The only time nobody fought. No “he got more than me,” no “I don’t like this.” Just chewing. Lots of it. Plates passed. Meat got scooped. Shells went crunch.

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I took my last bite and licked my fingers. “Use your napkin,” Mom said. I wiped my already clean fingers, then started to take my dirty plate to the sink when Dad spoke up. “I have something important to talk to you about,” he said. Just like that. No warning. No lead-up. My mind lit up with alarm bells. What did I do? Or worse, what did Dad find out? He glanced at Mom, then locked eyes with my eldest brother Chris. Dad wasn’t looking at me. I was safe. I slid back into my chair, trying to play it cool, even though every part of me was still buzzing. Then Dad’s eyes shifted, slowly, steady, and landed on all of us. That kind of look didn’t mean someone was in trouble. It meant the whole family needed to hear what was coming. “I’ve been asked to start a company overseas,” he said. “We’d be setting up kitchens and housing for workers who live out in remote places, like big oil camps in the desert. It’s a big job, and we’d have to move there for a couple of years.

 

My brain scrambled. Did I hear that right? Move? Like move? Overseas? Us? It hit me like a slap of cold water on my face.The offer came as a choice. Venezuela or Iran was on the ballot. Dad presented each choice like a pitcher hiding the ball in his glove. Mom was the catcher, giving signs, already knowing what was coming next.

 

Dad had already been to Venezuela when he was in the Merchant Navy. He said it was closer to California, and we’d be able to come back to visit more often. He gave it a ten-second commercial, then switched the channel.

 

Maybe Dad figured we’d see the move to Iran like bad-tasting medicine, so he sweetened the spoon first. He gave us the sales pitch.

 

The first pitch went to me, the easy batter. “Vincent,” Dad said, “Iran is a place of rolling green hills full of Arabian stallions. And you can have your own horse to ride.” Why that pitch? Because Dad and I had a thing. We both dreamed of moving to Montana, buying a ranch, becoming cowboys, and raising pigs. Whenever he wanted a kiss on the cheek good night or wanted me to snuggle up next to him while we watched our favorite TV shows, I’d hesitate, just to play it cool. So, he’d say, “You’re not coming to my pig farm unless you give me a kiss,” and point to his cheek. Well, I couldn’t stand the thought of being banned from that pig farm. Of course he got his kiss. Every time. So, when he said I could have my own horse, he knew exactly what he was doing.

 

Pitch accepted. Straight into the catcher’s glove.

 

“Chris,” Dad said, “the girls over there walk around in long, flowing dresses, veiled, showing only their sparkling eyes. Mysterious. Exotic. Like something out of Arabian Nights.” I glanced at my brother. He was fourteen. That was all he needed to hear. I imagined what he imagined, olive skin, dark eyes lined in black, long hair hidden beneath silks and scarves. Like princesses in a desert kingdom, lowering their veil to blow kisses.

 

That pitch? Straight into the glove.

 

Andrew, at twelve years old, didn’t even wait for the pitch. He just nodded. Brave. Bold. First to jump in and now only interested in what was for dessert.

 

Three pitches. Three strikes. We were out. Out of California, and on our way to a land I’d barely even heard of.

 

Venezuela never stood a chance. The campaign message only seconds, zero votes. The choice was made. And just like that, talk of preparations began...