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cheek. Scattered in front
     of him are pages of sketches: a steaming chipped mug of coffee, a perfectly drawn set of hands, a pair of lips, and an intricately
     sketched skirt, detailing every fold in the floral material.
    “Hi,” he says, and shuffles his sketches together.
    “These are great,” I say, taking the chair next to him and slipping a sheet from the pile. He has drawn an eye in minute detail.
     It stares unblinking from the page. From the wrinkles at the corner, the shading on the eyelid and the long lashes, I know
     it’s a woman’s eye. The tiny jagged lines in the white of the eye hint at sleepless nights. I can even sense sadness somehow.
     I survey the other patrons and quickly spot Ethan’s model, a young woman slumped over her mug. Her eyes are welling with tears.
    “You should be studying art,” I say, and take a drink of his coffee; it’s cold.
    “I don’t want to talk about this again.” Ethan’s words have sharp edges. “The art school closed, so that’s that.”
    “Look at these.” I pull page after page from his pile. “You are so talented.”
    “What about you? Do you really want to study nursing?” he asks, snatching the pages from me.
    “That’s my assigned job. It’s as good a job as any.” I have no idea what made the Job Allocation Panel think I’d be a good
     nurse. I heard that 50 percent of graduates were assigned to health-care jobs, so maybe it has nothing to do with the résumé
     package I submitted. “But you already had plans. You were going to be a great artist.”
    “What do you want me to do?” He slumps in his chair.
    “Get angry. Do something.” I’m louder than I intend. Time seems to stop for a second and all heads turn toward me. Ethan frowns
     and shakes his head ever so slightly. My nostrils flare. I curl my lips into a smile to show everyone that everything’s all
     right. Don’t stand out. Don’t make a scene. Don’t do anything to embarrass your dad. It’s the way I was raised.
    Ethan scoots closer to me. “This opportunity with National Re-Design won’t come along for years, if ever. It’s a good job.
     I start tomorrow and that’s the last I want to hear about it.” He collects his sketches in his open sketch pad and closes
     the cover. He lowers his voice. “I’ll leave the protesting to you and Sanna.”
    I can see the hurt in his eyes. He thought I told him everything. But he didn’t know anything about Sanna’s and my plans.
     “I wanted to tell you,” I whisper. “I’m sorry, Ethan.” I hear sniffles. It’s Ethan’s eye model. Tears dot the woman’s cheeks.
     “I should have told you, but I knew you wouldn’t like it.” I glance at Ethan and then back at the woman. “I didn’t want you
     to feel pressured. I only wanted you to be involved if you wanted to. I didn’t think you would, so I—”
    He holds up his hand to stop my string of excuses. “I can’t be a part of anything like that. You didn’t tell me because you
     knew I’d try to talk you out of it.” And now the gap between us has widened again. How could he rebel against the Protectosphere
     when generations of Harrisons have helped build and maintain it? Ethan’s father and older sister are engineers. His uncle
     works in the plant that makes Protectosphere panels. His mother is employed as a weather monitor—maintaining the filtering
     system and monitoring the weather program.
    “But, Ethan, I think we can—”
    “Not another word, Neva.” He looks around. “I don’t want to know anything about it. I wish you’d stop this nonsense with Sanna.”
    The crying woman wipes her eyes on a lacey handkerchief and stands. She arches her back and I can see her full, round pregnant
     belly. Ethan touches my chin and turns my face toward him. He whispers, “Do you understand how dangerous it is? If the government
     finds out… my God, Neva, your father. What were you thinking?”
    “How can you sit back and let them rob us of our future?”