A fear Paul had transformed all these years, like a gifted alchemist, into anger and rebellion.

Her voice, high and clear, moved through the leaves, through the sunlight. It splashed onto the gravel, the grass. He imagined the notes falling into the air like stones into water, rippling the invisible surface of the world. Waves of sound, waves of light: his father had tried to pin everything down, but the world was fluid and could not be contained.

You missed a lot of heartache, sure. But David, you missed a lot of joy.

They turned a distracted gaze on the world, wide-eyed, somehow, and questioning.

That there were other worlds, invisible, unknown, beyond imagination even, was a revelation to him.

Lately, the world felt fragile, like a blown egg, as if it might shatter beneath a careless touch.

This is what he knew that Paul didn't: the world was precarious and sometimes cruel. He'd had to fight hard to achieve what Paul simply took for granted.