"I realized I didn't actually want to make clothes. I just wanted to draw pretty things." I take a breath. The cold air burns my lungs. "So I switched to art. Painting. Sculpture. Anything that let me create without having to be practical."
"That's why you work at the nonprofit."
"Yes." I nod. "I teach kids to make art. To express themselves. To feel things and put them on paper instead of keeping them locked inside."
The SUV is twenty feet away.
Fifteen.
Ten.
"Do you still dream about the future?" Dante asks.
The question stops me.
Not physically.
My feet keep moving.
But something inside me pauses.
Do I?
Two years ago, I had dreams.
A career. A family. A life that made sense.
Then Daniil happened.
Then the shooting.
Then the hospital and the nerve damage and the two years of pretending I was fine.
"I don't know," I whisper. "I used to think about the future all the time. It was how I survived bad days. I'd tell myself tomorrow would be better. Next week would be better. Next year would be better."
"And now?"
"Now I can't see past tonight."
We reach the SUV.
The back door opens.
Dante helps me into the back seat.
I slide across the leather.
He follows.
Closes the door.
The interior is warm.
Dark.
Safe.
"Marina." Dante's voice is close. Right next to my ear. "Look at me."
