Excerpt from Palaver by Bryan Washington, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

Are you alright, she asked.

I'm fine, he said.

You don't sound fine.

Don't tell me how I sound.

That's better. You're breathing heavy. Have you been running?

I'm fat. Fat people breathe heavy.

Okay, said the mother. Let's try this then. Are you safe? What time is it there?

I'm fine, said the son.

It's four in the morning in Tokyo. Did something happen?

No.

A typhoon? Is it raining? Don't they have earthquakes over there?

You wouldn't be able to help me if something like that happened.

Then why, said the mother.

I don't know, said the son. I just thought I should. That's all.

Sounds of the city started seeping through her phone. The mother imagined him walking through traffic, or standing on a bridge, or leaning on a door.

That's when she decided to skip five more minutes of pleasantries.

Hey, she said, this isn't like last time, right? You haven't tried to hurt yourself?

The line was silent for a moment.

The mother counted six seconds.

No, said the son.

Sorry, he said. It's late here. Go back to work, I'll talk to you later.

And then he hung up.

* * *

The mother hadn't booked a plane ticket in years. A lot had changed. So the first thing she did was call her friend at the dentistry—the other secretary—a woman who spent half the year in Manila with her husband.

They talked about the weather. The dentist. His wife. His girlfriend. After giving Angela a few details, the mother clicked through flights from Houston to Haneda over Google.

Nineteen hours, said the mother. There's nothing quicker? With no layovers?

Not for what you're paying, said Angela.

Still, said the mother, in this day and age?

You're crossing the world. Houston, Los Angeles, Taipei, Tokyo. You want quicker, try WhatsApp.

The mother sighed. In her apartment, Angela leaned into the sofa, sipping her tea. The pair lazed into an easy silence, scrolling through Google.

You really fly all that way for your husband, asked the mother.

Sure, said Angela. And my boyfriend, too.

* * *

So, nineteen hours.

The mother could afford to take time off for twelve days. Maybe fourteen, if she insisted. She made a mental list of errands she'd need to finish before leaving, filing them away in her head, when a recurring alarm to check the apartment's locks blipped across her phone.

Of course she had to do these things herself. She was still learning. This was just the way life was.

* * *

When the mother finally fell asleep, the son grabbed his bag and left, gently shutting the apartment door behind him.

The city's trains would run for another few hours. He ducked into the local station, past the African market and the pachinko parlors and the Korean shopping duplex. The first wave of office workers had already stumbled home, making space for the contract workers and tourists and third-shift employees, but it wasn't long before the son was back aboveground, in Shinjuku, where the night recalibrated itself for the party set.

Building signs shifted from shades of gray to glowing neons. Clusters of people stood smoking and laughing, tapping through their phones. After he'd crossed the road, the son walked through several alleys, past an Italian restaurant and a curry udon chain before he reentered the flow of Kabukichō's foot traffic.

Stepping into a tiny Chinese diner, the son waved past the matron, nodding at a table outside. Another guy with a perm sat there, nursing a sweaty beer by the window.

You're early, he said, grinning.

Sorry, said the son. That thing we talked about happened.

You don't have to call your mother a thing, said Taku.

You know what I mean. I'm saying we can't use my place for a while.

Excerpted from Palaver by Bryan Washington. Copyright © 2025 by Bryan Washington. Excerpted by permission of Farrar, Straus & Giroux. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.