His sentimentality, his flawed decision-making—all his problems were rooted in his past. There was no escaping them. They were in these bookshelves, and in the way he’d been raised. Yes, he made mistakes. Just that morning, after two weeks of failed reasoning, he had finally told his parents he would be driving to Las Vegas the next day, committing himself to the decision on an impulse. On a fucking whim. How hopelessly suboptimal.