She smiles back, a goofy grin that makes the boy next to her snigger. Santi’s heart hurts. One of those kids the world hasn’t yet closed down, her joy like a target on her back. Stay how you are, Thora Lišková, he prays silently, although he knows it’s no use. He gives it a year before she starts caring more about what people think of her than what makes her happy. “And what do you want to be?” he asks.

She doesn’t hesitate. “An astronaut.”

Santi manages to smile. He has no problem with the ones who want to be footballers or vets or racing drivers. Go on, he tells them. Chase your dreams. Even though, statistically, they will end up working in call centers. But the ones who want to be astronauts are harder.

He swallows down half a lifetime of regret. “That’s a tough choice,” he says. “But worthwhile.” He draws her in blue: a tiny, relentless figure in a space helmet, planting a flag on a miniature planet. When he turns back, her face is pink and she won’t meet his eyes.

He goes through the class until the board is full of rappers, cake decorators, doctors. Thora floats at the edge, as if she’s about to step off into the untrammeled world beyond. “Now,” Santi says, handing out lined paper, “I want you to write and illustrate a story about your future self. Imagine you are what you told me you want to be. Show me what it’s like.” He sits down, ready for fifteen minutes of relative peace.

A hand waves at the corner of his eye.

“Yes?”

“What about you, Mr. López?” Thora, her face bright. “What did you want to be?”

He lies without hesitation. He can’t show her a living example of someone who wanted the same thing and failed. “Obviously, I wanted to be a science teacher,” he says. “And here I am.”

Scattered laughs and groans. None of the children he’s drawn on the board are teachers.

Her hand goes up again.

He sighs. “Yes, Thora.”

“You should draw yourself.”

Other voices join in. “Yeah.” “Go on, sir.” The only space left is at the edge, next to Thora. He draws himself there, smaller than any of them, hair a mad-scientist frizz, bald spot a full monk’s tonsure. First rule of working with children: stab yourself in your own weak points before they can find them. Mr. López, he writes underneath, to gratifying giggles.

He bows and sits down. He can tell without looking that Thora’s hand is still up. “Last question, then I want you to get on with your writing.”

“You should give yourself a space helmet,” she says. “Or you won’t be able to breathe.”