He was three minutes late for the interview we scheduled. His military-wired clocks had been blinking twelve hundred hours for nearly two years by then.
A summer night in Rome feels strangely vacant. After the last of the taxis and weaving mopeds careen into oblivion, a breeze ripples through the dry air…
We are on the roof: Jonathan, Leo, and I. Or rather, I am on the roof, and they are on the ladder. Twelve years old is too young to be on the roof, I tell them, especially such a roof.