“5,6,7,8. And roll… look,” shouted the elderly woman at the front of the room over the music. “Don’t forget to breathe.”

Zachary took a breath through his nose, noticing how much more smoothly his movements flowed and how much more power he had. Moving to the music, he spun across the room, spotting perfectly with a piece of blue painters tape on the wall. He spun downstage and leapt across the floor, his feet landing and pushing off at exactly in time with the beat. He focused on his breath and his gaze, feeling the precise balance of each movement with each note. His muscles strained to fill the space, tell the story, holding, brushing, suspending time and then speeding it up until the song finished. A perfect moment of stillness followed filled with blood-rushing joy.

“Good,” the instructor said as Zachary doubled over, hands on knees gasping for breath. “One more time from the top and then we’ll cool down.” The instructor sat down on a folding chair by the sound system and crossed one leg over the other, pulling her fine, white hair out of its bun so that it fell in soft curls around her angular face.

Zachary felt a smile tugging at his lips. His dance was good. It was by far one of his best routines to date and with each practice he was creeping toward perfection. This was the sort of routine that would not only win him gold if he was lucky, but land him a spot on tour, or in one of the few dance schools left in the world. It was a routine to launch a career, to kick start dreams.

Wiping the sweat from his eyes, Zachary caught sight of his father in the mirror, standing in the waiting area with bags under his eyes, still wearing his tan peacoat. His heart sank and the smile slid off his face. Father and son nodded to each other just once before Zachary returned to the center of the hardwood floor and took up his starting position.

In the space between the music starting and the silence of waiting, Zachary shook out his hands and swallowed his dread. He smiled through the first sixteen counts, trying to pretend his father wasn’t watching, but as he chained to the left, he caught his father’s golden gaze. In that small moment he over-turned and was late getting to his mark down stage.

Breathe, he reminded himself.

Next was the leap section, his favorite. But that feeling of total freedom as he flew through the air was gone. His limbs were made of lead and the beat felt far away as though his heart had plugged its ears. He stumbled. The moves that used to come naturally without the effort of thought were forgotten and the mistakes piled up. Zachary’s heart was racing in his ears, deafening. The show must go on. Quitting in the middle was never an option, not even in practice. When the music finally finished he knew that such a performance would not even win bronze.

“We’re all tired,” the instructor said with a kindness Zachary knew he did not deserve. “Let’s finish here.”

Why was Father even here? Zachary thought. Did something happen with Mother? What was so important they could not talk at home? Maybe it was nothing. Maybe he just wanted a chance to catch up. Zachary took a deep breath and counted to ten.

The instructor put on a calming instrumental piece. He had just begun to cool down, stretching his arms in the air above his head when his father called him sharply.

“Zachary. It’s time to go.”

“Sir,” said the instructor before Zachary could respond. “We need to cool down. We’ll be done in a few minutes.”

“Zachary can stretch at home,” Carwyn said, arm outstretched to his son. “I’m very busy today.”

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You’re always busy, thought Zacahry. But he left the studio all the same, thanking his instructor before pulling on his fleece and changing his shoes.

“Meet me in the car. George has it parked outfront,” Carwyn said before leaving, his eyes unfocused as they read something on his smart glasses.

Zachary quickly collected his things and left the building to find one of the Carwyn Tech town cars waiting at the curb. He stepped into the back seat and dropped his dance bag at his feet, trying to keep his expression neutral. Carwyn was sitting across from him, one leg over the other. The car was warm and the leather seat hugged Zachary when he sat down. George wordlessly pulled the car into traffic.

“I wasn’t expecting you,” Zachary said just to break the silence.

“I wanted to speak with you,” said Carwyn without taking his eyes off Zachary. “I’m sorry I’ve been so busy.”

“That’s okay,” said Zachary, shrugging his shoulders. “What did you want to talk about?”

It was already dark outside and there was a faint drizzle.

“Do you remember our discussion about taking a break from dance?”

Zachary’s heart clenched. “I do. We said I’d take a break after the competition.”

Carwyn sighed and his thick brow furrowed. “Yes. When is that?”

“Next weekend, Father. At the opera house. I got you and Mother tickets.”

“Right. Well, good. An internship position has just opened up at the office and I think you should take it. You can start once this competition business is over.”

Zachary ran his hand through his sweaty hair and tried to keep his voice steady. “Thank you, Father. But I’m not interested. I don’t want to work in tech.”

“I know you think you don’t want to work in tech, Zachary. But this is a good opportunity. It’s a stable industry. There is money and movement. I really think you should give it a try.”

“I don’t need money. I’m only sixteen.”

“I was already on my own at sixteen and I won’t always be here to help you. How will you ever be able to support yourself and make a family as a dancer?”

The familiar combination of anger and shame rose up through Zachary’s chest and around his throat sinking its teeth deep. Swallowing hard to keep from choking, he said, “I don’t care about being rich like you and I don’t want to be married.” He hated the way his voice came out high and desperate and angry.

“You say that now, but when you are older you will see. You don’t care because you’ve never had to worry about money,” Carwyn said, his voice quiet and firm next to his son’s. “If you don’t take this internship, I’ll need you to find another job. You need some real life experience. There is no security in freelance or art. This is not the Nation Days. People don’t have extra money to spend on the arts, they need that money for food and technology. I’m not saying you have to stop dancing, I’m just saying that at least in tech you’ll be taken care of. You can always dance in your free time.”

Zachary’s hands shook so violently he had to squeeze his fists between his knees. But his father just kept going. “I know you’re young and want to explore, but outside of Bardo there are no guarantees. You won’t be protected from disease and crime and whatever else people get up to when there is no infrastructure.”

“We have disease and crime here too. And besides, Mother thinks I’m too young for a job.” Zachary threw himself back into his seat and looked stubbornly out the window. Water drops stuck to the glass reflecting the blues and oranges of the city lights they passed.

“I’m just trying to help you prepare for the real world, Zachary. You are one of the lucky ones. You have education and two parents who love and support you while millions have nothing. Don’t waste what others would die for.”

The softness in his father’s voice surprised Zachary enough to make him look. Tears burned the backs of his eyes, but his father’s were as resolute as ever.

“I know, Father. But you have to trust me. Believe in me.”

“Belief can only get you so far.”

They spent the rest of the car ride in silence.