“No. You said it, you don’t get to take it back.” Thora pinches her forehead. “I just want to make sure I understand. Living in a squat and—and scribbling in a book is the right path, but me raising a family with Jules isn’t?” She stares at him, almost laughing in fury. “The way you live is selfish, Santi. You think you’re the hero, the noble martyr sacrificing his comfort so he’ll be found worthy. But you know what? It makes you a shitty friend. Jules and I worry about you constantly. Your poor mum—”

His face closes down. “At least I’m trying to do more than just maximize my own happiness.”

“You’re not even listening.” Thora throws up her hands. “You always know best, don’t you? Honestly, you’re my dad one time—”

“And you still act like my supervisor.” Santi glares at her with the anger he rarely shows, carved into his natural peace like a tracery of scars. She remembers him as her brother, the night she found him in the garage kicking an old washing machine to pieces.

He exhales. “What about next time? What will you do?”

“I told you. I want to do everything. Be everything. Maybe I’ll join the circus. Maybe I’ll get rich and buy a mansion in Rodenkirchen. Maybe I’ll finally become an astronaut.” She watches his face. “What, you disapprove of that too?”

He shakes his head. “It won’t mean anything if we don’t understand.”

Thora laughs. Santi bears her laughter patiently, as he always does. She hates that she remembers that. “Why are you the one who gets to decide what means something and what doesn’t?”

Santi stands up. “There’s no point talking to you when you’re like this.”

“Like what?” Thora feels cold with anger. “You can’t do this. Burst in and tell me my life is meaningless.”

Santi paces across the room. “Let me tell you what you can’t do.”

“Keep your fucking voice down,” she warns him.

But he’s beyond listening. He turns to her, eyes flashing. “You can’t draw a line around me. Say, I want this much of you and no more. We’re beyond that, Thora. We’ve been too much to each other.” She needs to stop him, to shut him up, but he is elemental, uninterruptable as a hurricane. “You don’t get to use me as an accessory for your perfect life. Hushing me when it suits you, listening when you’re bored.”

She hates the way he gets in her head, says the things she barely admits to herself. “I don’t get bored.”