Bad news. Did this even qualify as truly bad news, he wondered? There was no death here. No blood or broken bones to deal with. But it did qualify, he believed. Making movies was the only dream he had ever nurtured, and he had pinned his whole identity on the objective. For years he had hoped only to steward certain images into the world—to invest his invisible thoughts with sound and color—and now, he saw, that plan might never happen. His secret visions would remain unformed. His work would remain unfinished. The loss he faced was not on the level of someone’s murder or kidnapping, but it was nevertheless real. Otherwise, what was the point? What was the point of anything?

Traffic in all lanes halted completely. On the river, a tugboat pushed a weathered cargo ship to sea, grinding through the green waters.

If only there were a villain in the scenario, Dan thought, someone to blame for his troubles. But no one quite fit the role. There had been some assholes along the way, but mostly there were just insecure bureaucrats. The financiers were not monsters, after all. They weren’t even stupid. They were all sharp, committed, well-rounded people who just wanted to be involved in projects that inspired them. They wanted to find good work, like anyone else. They took no pleasure in dashing the dreams of commercial directors in the provinces such as himself, even if that seemed to be their most natural talent.

Dan wished he felt entitled enough to be resentful and angry. Then he might turn his anxiety outward. He might lash out. But he was not that type. He was grateful for the opportunities he had already been offered. He was asking for a lot of money, after all. Millions of dollars. He had no right to complain.

“Dad?” Celia said, intruding on Dan’s sadly familiar pattern of thoughts. The red brake lights ahead lit and extinguished nearly at random.

“Yeah,” Dan said.

“What’s the difference between a crow and a raven?”

“I have no idea,” he said, and found he had lost some of his enthusiasm for questions.