"Driver, did you hear that plane?" I asked, pressing my forehead to the taxi window so the fog didn't blur the streetlights.
"Heard plenty," the driver said, not looking back. "They fly low today. Scares the gulls, scares the dogs. You okay, kid?"
"I'm fine," I lied.
"You don't look fine." He glanced in the rearview mirror. "Coming from the docks or the Gallery?"
"Both," I said. "I was at Eastbank. Mr. Scholz—Tilda—said—" My words dissolved with the rain. I pushed the hem of my soaked skirt between two fingers and forced the sentence out. "She called about a submission."
"A submission," the driver repeated, as if the city offered that kind of news every morning. "Big day?"
"It could be." I didn't tell him I had no piece to hand in, only a torn sketchbook with corners softened by my thumb. I didn't tell him the one time a man in a gray jacket had handed me a clean dress in a hallway and said, "You look like you need this," and then walked away like it was no thing at all.
The driver hummed. "Planes, dresses, Gallery luck. You'll be fine."
I shut my eyes. The memory landed like a dropped paper—sharp and small. He'd been tall, older than me. He'd smelled faintly of oil and paint. He'd moved like he knew the town and didn't care for anything the town thought of him. He
