The first time I catch sight of the coast, it’s through a gap in the clouds, from a thousand feet in the air.

Is that my city? I wonder. It looks so small.

Though I’ve flown many times before, my perspective has never felt as shifted as it does now. This row of skyscrapers—downtown Dalai City, the capital of my country and the location of my father’s palace—has really been my whole world until now. All that I thought mattered.

Now, everything feels different.

The city looks like a toy model, insignificant compared to the feelings that have ricocheted through me over the past few days.

For the entire plane ride, I’ve been thinking about the factory, and now, as the plane zeros in on the airport, my thoughts continue. I replay Teresa’s words for the hundredth time. “The factory is New Hampstead’s lifeblood.” Her face looked so drawn as she said this; the complete opposite expression to how she looked when she was telling me about her town.

She loves it there—not just her cottage, but the whole community. There wasn’t one inch of New Hampstead that didn’t make Teresa light up with happiness.

I’m not going to be the one that takes that light away from her; I’m not going to be the man that dims her glow. I can’t be. It would hurt too much. But the fact is, Hassan and I weren’t lying to the workers when they stormed the inn. We didn’t have any straight answers for them, because we didn’t have the answers ourselves.

We still don’t. And we won’t, until we go over every detail with our father. Ultimately, as the founder and CEO of Canarra, he will make the final decision on whether or not the plant stays open.

I push my hand through my hair as the plane rumbles onto the landing strip. The vibration of the wheels hitting the tarmac disrupts the small plastic cup of water that I’m holding in one hand, and I curse bitterly, louder than I should.

“You okay?” Hassan asks, eyeing me.

I gulp down the remaining water, crush the cup, and stuff it into the seat pocket in front of me.

“You seem tense,” says Hassan.

“I’m fine,” I growl, wiping water off of my sleeve with a paper napkin. I simply can’t talk about the guilt that I feel over leaving the town in the way that we did. The fact that my family’s interests might stand in the way of an entire town’s wellbeing—a town that Teresa cares about so deeply—makes me feel worse than I can put into words.

“You don’t look fine.” The seatbelt light above turns off, and Hassan swiftly unfastens his. The first class cabin is only sparsely filled, and Hassan doesn’t have to wait before standing up into the aisle. “You look…terrible.”

“Thanks,” I mutter sarcastically.

Hassan reaches for his suitcase and heads down the aisle before saying another word. He knows me well enough to pick up on when I don’t want to talk.

I stand up, and my legs and back feel stiff from the long journey. It’s a relief to stand, though, and I bend my legs back and forth a few times as I reach up towards my suitcase. When I catch sight of my right hand, it looks bare. My signet ring! Where is it?

My mind races back to the night at Teresa’s house. I recall taking my ring off, and placing it on the nightstand, as I do every night before I go to sleep. But in the morning, I was too preoccupied to pick it up and put it back on.

I left it at her house.

A faint wisp of comfort pierces the thick cloud of sadness and guilt that’s been surrounding me since we left New Hampstead. Maybe Teresa will find the ring, and save it for me. That could be an excuse to see her again, right?

My mind is filled with thoughts of her as I roll my suitcase down the aisle, towards the airport terminal.

After Hassan and I are driven to the palace, fed, and given the opportunity to rest for a few hours, I make my way to my father’s office. I’ve ordered a cup of Turkish coffee from the house staff, and I sip it quickly as I approach the mahogany double doors.

Hassan and I grew up in this palace. Though we each have houses of our own—several, in fact—we often stay here when we’re in Dalai City. My father likes it when we’re here. It makes doing business much easier. He is rarely at the office when I am, because I like to work on my designs late in the evening. When we are both residing at the palace, it’s easier to find time for a meeting.

I knock on the doors, opening them without waiting for a response. As I expected, my father is behind his desk. He looks up as I enter the room.

“Ah! You’re up. I thought you might sleep all day.”

“I just needed a few hours,” I say.

“How was the flight?”

“Fine, fine.” I take a seat in one of the high-backed wing chairs positioned near his desk.

He removes his reading glasses, and I see him study me.

“What’s wrong?” he asks. “You don’t seem yourself.”

“I don’t?” I pause, unsure of how to tell him what’s on my mind.

“Was it the traveling? I know you don’t like to leave the city, Jabir. If you disliked it that much, I won’t ask you to go again. Hassan’s already filled me in on the numbers.” My father looks down at his desk, as if he’s disappointed in me. I can’t stand it.

“No, Father, that’s not it.” I sit forward, and put my coffee cup on the desk. “Why do you always act as if I’m trying to shirk my responsibilities?”

“Because, Jabir. I know you’re capable of more than you let on.”

“I’m the head of design at Canarra! I’ve had a hand in all of the cars we’ve unveiled in the past nine years, since I was twenty-one years old! Yet, you act like I don’t do anything.”

“I appreciate what you do for the company. You have an eye for beauty, Jabir. Always have. Your cars are designed to perfection. But you have more in there—more that you’re not using.” He taps his head. “You’re smart, Jabir, but you let yourself imagine that your brother has all of the intelligence.”

I take a deep breath, and notice how angry I’ve become. My nerves are on edge; they have been since we got on the plane. Maybe I should have slept more than a few hours before meeting with my father, but it’s too late now.

“Hassan’s the one who went to business school,” I say.

“Sometimes, a class can’t teach you how to lead a business. You’re born with it.”

My chest is rising and falling. I’m sure that he’s saying Hassan was born with more natural leadership abilities than I was. That’s been our dynamic since childhood—Hassan leads the way, and I follow dutifully behind, thoughtful, quiet, distracted by a daydream.

“Well,” I say, “Why would I have to be involved in the business side of Canarra, when Hassan already has it figured out? I’m sure he’s sent you all of the data on the transmission factory already.”

My father won’t look away from me. I feel like a child, sitting in the chair under his stare.

“You’re missing my point, Jabir,” he says quietly. Then, he reaches for the papers in front of him, which he was looking at when I interrupted him. “But yes, in fact, he did send me the numbers.”

He puts on his reading glasses and leans over the desk, peering at the stack of white sheets. “I see it’s worse than we thought. Your brother gave me a detailed outline of the figures for road maintenance, and it would cost us a significant amount of investment just to get the roads into the condition that they need to be in before we can think about next steps. I don’t think—”

“Wait,” I interrupt him. He looks up abruptly. “Before you go on,” I say, “you should know something. Something that you’re not going to find in the figures on that page.

“The people of New Hampstead are one hundred and fifty percent committed to that factory. They love it, like it’s…”

I stutter, trying to put the townspeople's energy into my words. I think of Marge, at the diner, and the way she called it “our factory.”

“They love it like it’s their own. They feel ownership over it, Father. They care about it deeply. They need it. They enjoy the work there—you should have seen how friendly and kind everyone was when we visited the production floor. On top of that, they’re incredibly hard workers.”

My father looks somewhat stunned by my outburst. “But, Jabir.” He points to the papers. “It’s all here in Hassan’s calculations. Keeping that factory open isn’t economically viable.”

“No,” I say. “It’s not. Not in the short term, and not in the condition that it’s in today. But with a few changes here and there, it’s going to make a very good investment in the long term. I’m saying, twenty, thirty years down the line. This factory could be one of our biggest assets in the U.S. We could hold corporate retreats there, in the future. Those workers could establish the company culture for all of our stateside ventures.”

My father removes his glasses, leans back in his seat, and crosses his arms over his chest. He squints his eyes at me. “You see?” he says. He’s still holding his glasses in one hand, and he shakes them at me a few times. “You see what you have in you? Natural ability, Jabir. You’re a visionary. It’s inside of you. You just have to let it out.”

I don’t know what to say to this, so I say nothing at all.

My father sits forward. “Okay,” he says. “I trust you, son. I trust your judgement, and New Hampstead stays open. Now, I want you to look at something. We have a production line in Illinois that produced thirty percent less this year than it did last. I want you to read this email, which the head of the plant sent to me this morning.”

And just like that, we’re talking about something else. Just like that, the plant is safe.

I feel pride in the pit of my stomach. It balloons up, into my chest. I’ve done it! I’ve saved the factory! Teresa’s father won’t be out of a job. Nor will her uncle, her cousin, or Marge’s husband, Jim. Derryl’s job is safe, and he’s going to be so happy to hear it, I’m sure.

I feel elated as I read over the email from another plant manager. After discussing it with my father, I settle into listening to his sales projections for the next five years. I sip my coffee happily, and my father seems to appreciate the comments that I offer as he talks.

“Something’s changed about you, Jabir,” my father says, several hours later. “I can’t quite put my finger on it. You’re more of a man.”

I feel myself bristle at this observation. “I’m thirty years old, Father. I’ve been an adult for years now.”

“Okay,” he says, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. Some of the camaraderie I’ve sensed with him begins to dissipate. I feel defensive, and it comes out in my tone.

“I know I didn’t go to the right schools, like Hassan, or marry at twenty-five, like he did. I haven’t taken on as much responsibility in the company as he has, and I don’t have a son, as he does. But I’m doing things in my own way, Father, because I have to. That doesn’t make me less of man.”

“I know that, my son. I know. I just wanted you to know… I sense something different about you. That is all.”

Again, I’m left speechless. Should I thank him? Take offence? I barely have time to think about this before he speaks again. “You know, I became ruler when I was thirty-five years old. I’m now sixty-five. Soon, I’ll pass the throne on to one of you.”

And I’m sure Hassan will do an excellent job. I don’t say this aloud, but the thought fires through my head like a bullet out of a gun.

My father reaches across his desk, to a framed photograph.

It’s a picture of Hassan and I, running along the beach. Hassan is in the front, his little white button-down shirt fastened to the top and pulled tight across his chest by the wind, a look of intensity on his face. I’m trailing behind him, by blue shirt open, revealing by bare, skinny brown chest. My hair is whipped in the wind, and a goofy smile is plastered across my face.

“You were a very happy child,” my father says.

“Look at Hassan,” I say. “He’s so far ahead of me!” It’s true. He’s a good four feet in the lead.

“Do you know why Hassan works so hard?” My father leaves the picture facing me, and folds his hands in front of him. I study the picture, and shake my head.

“Because,” my father says, “he was afraid of being left behind. He had to work hard, whereas you could just…be you. People adored you. You didn’t need to work to impress anyone, Jabir. Hassan did.”

I swallow. It’s all there, in the picture: Hassan’s studious, determined face. My carefree smile. Why did I never see it before?

I tear my eyes away from the picture, and look at my father. “What are you saying?” I ask.

“I know that you think your brother is going to inherit the throne. You’ve gotten used to him coming in first. But I’m saying don’t be so sure that your brother is in line for the role. I suspect that you have it in you to be more of a leader than you have been, over the past ten years. Speaking with you today has only reinforced that suspicion.”

Now I know that he’s praising me. For once, he’s not criticizing my decisions, or my lack of effort. He’s paying me a sincere compliment, and it feels so good.

“Thank you.” I bow my head slightly, paying him respect.

“Now,” he says, sorting through the stack of papers before him. “Why don’t you take all of this data from New Hampstead, and come up with a budget proposal?” He lifts some papers and passes them my way. “Give them the good news first thing next week, once you’ve come up with an investment plan. I’m sure they’re anxious to hear more from us.”

With the papers in hand, I head back to my room to rest; the jet-lag is starting to kick in. I lie down in bed, but sleep won’t come.

I get up, and search through my desk until I find what I’m looking for: A sheet of blank paper, and a drawing pencil. It’s not charcoal, but I know that I’ll be able to smudge it, and I’m eager to practice the technique.

I step out onto the balcony and look out over my city.

Sitting with my back against the palace walls, the paper laid across a hardcover book in my lap, I start to sketch. It’s almost as if I can hear Teresa’s voice in my ear, giving me little hints about how to move the graphite so that it creates shadows and forms.

I wish that she was right here, beside me.

I pause and put the pencil down, a realization hitting me. I miss her. I really, really miss her. Not only that, but I miss her town, too.