Outside, the sun was setting on the Sile River. He pulled out his real phone, called Matteo (who answered on the second ring, confused, safe at work in Milan), and laughed for the first time all week.
Elio Ferraro, seventy-three, knew the counter of the post office in Quarto d’Altino better than his own kitchen. He knew the squeak of the plastic chair, the way Signora Pina the clerk double-clicked her mouse before sighing, and the exact spot on the modulo bonifico postale where his tremor made the numbers wobble. modulo bonifico postale
Elio’s heart seized.