Dante froze.
Noah didn’t notice.
“Dad.
There.”
Dante picked up the curved track.
His fingers shook.
“Here?”
“No.” Noah groaned dramatically.
“There.”
I turned toward the kitchen before either of them saw my face.
For years, I had believed dignity meant never needing anyone enough to let them hurt me.
I had been wrong.
Dignity was being able to tell the truth without surrendering yourself to it.
I had been right to fear the world Dante lived in.
I had been wrong to believe fear gave me the right to write every future by myself.
Dante had lost four years he could never recover.
I had spent four years looking over my shoulder.
Noah had gained something neither of us could manufacture after the fact: the chance to know both of us honestly.
On Noah’s fifth birthday, we returned to the market.
The vendor had saved a small wooden caboose for him.
Noah placed it behind the blue carriage and pushed the whole train along the counter.
“Now it’s complete,” he announced.
Dante and I looked at each other.
Neither of us corrected him.
Some things weren’t complete.
Some never would be.
But when Noah took one of my hands and one of Dante’s and pulled us toward the flower stalls, I didn’t look toward the street for the black Mercedes.
I looked at my son.
And for the first time in five years, I wasn’t planning an escape.
