In every night that followed, Timothy dreamed of Florence.
He saw her at twenty, all unguarded softness in her face, with a stubborn streak that refused to lose at anything.
He dreamed of their first trip to the amusement park, where he had pretended to be carried along by the noise and lights while privately finding the whole place painfully childish.
He had buried that opinion deep and played at every booth right beside her, the way a man in love was supposed to.
He dreamed of the day Florence gave birth, when he had paced the hallway outside her room and listened to every exhausted cry seep through the door.
A new kind of regret had cut through him then. A girl barely past twenty should never have had to carry his child before she was ready for any of it.
Another dream brought bac
