Father used to show me all the shapes, tell me about the characters and stories that were tied to the lines in the stars. I didn’t know how much of it to take seriously, but now I liked to think that somewhere else, another father was telling his son the same stories, and that boy was thinking about the possibility in his life, and that he could be the kind of person who people turned into a legend, the kind of person people carved into the stars. That poor boy. One day the illusion would be shattered. But I hoped he had it still, if only for a night.
