It was late afternoon before Paolo returned. Nina was doing the ironing, and though it was hot work, and tiring, it was soothing and ever so satisfying to pass the big flatiron, its belly full of coals from the hearth, over the crumpled linens and watch them grow glossy and smooth and perfect.

Rosa had killed the oldest of the hens and was busy making a stew from its meat, but her attention was fixed on the open door and the courtyard beyond. They were both listening for the telltale rattle of the boys’ old bicycle, and when they did hear it, and the accompanying skirl of its tires over the patches of gravel close to the road, they looked at one another, relieved but unwilling to give voice to their fears.

There was a crash as Paolo flung the bicycle to the ground, and that alone was enough to send Rosa running. The boys were always so careful with their bicycle.

“What is it?” Rosa asked, her voice rising. “What has happened?”

Nina set the iron on the back of the range and hurried to the door. Paolo was in his sister’s arms, crouching so he might bury his face in the crook of her neck, and he was weeping, his lanky frame racked by great, gasping sobs.

“What is it?” Nina asked, for the stoic Paolo never cried about anything. He’d frowned a bit when Selva had been shot, and he’d stayed up late with her night after night, but he wasn’t the sort of boy to cry.

“I don’t know,” Rosa fretted. “I’ve never seen him so upset.”

“Let’s get him inside and sitting down.”

They propelled Paolo to a chair just inside the kitchen door, the one his father usually occupied. With Nina at his side, rubbing his back, Rosa knelt before him, her hands grasping his. He wept on, his shoulders shaking, and they comforted him as best they could, and waited until the worst of it was past and he could speak again.

“Where is Papà?”

“I’ll find him,” Nina offered. “I think he’s in the stables.”

She ran as fast as she could across the courtyard, which wasn’t very fast at all given how far back she had to lean to balance the weight of her belly. “Aldo! Aldo!”

He was standing near the back, occupied with the latch on the milk cows’ stall. “Yes, Nina? What is it?”

“Something happened to Paolo in Bassano. He needs you.”

Aldo dropped the mallet he’d been holding and ran past her. By the time she made it back to the kitchen Paolo was in his father’s arms.

“You’re home, my boy. Home and safe. Take a deep breath. Yes, that’s good. And another. Good. Do you think you can tell us what happened? Are you in trouble?”

Paolo shook his head, still breathless from his tears.