Below him, cars begin to speed across the bridge. Big trucks with cargo for grocers and furniture and bags of concrete rumble over the East River. Commuters file across, jostling for space, honking. Paolo can feel his back begin to sweat against the wooden bench. He should have called home last night, he realizes. Antonia will be furious. She’ll be disappointed. Antonia is so often disappointed in Paolo. He never intended to be the kind of man that would cause such regular, small-scale domestic depression. You are not the man I thought you were, he says to himself.

The sky has darkened as the sun has risen, the pronunciation of morning thunderheads against the horizon becoming sinister. Green and gray. Paolo stands. It’s a long walk home, and he wonders if he will make it before it rains.

—

It is the first dawn after the longest night of Sofia’s life.

Saul had taken Sofia aside after dinner, whispered I’m sorry, I’m so sorry into her ear and I promise you’ll be okay, it will be okay. He disappeared through the front door of Rosa and Joey’s apartment like he was never there. Sofia’s rage was made of panic, of fear, of a hollow, bitter, wrung-out stomach. Joey hugged her and said put Julia to bed, and wouldn’t engage with her, wouldn’t fight, wouldn’t tell her what was wrong. Saul’s good at what he does, Joey said. Sofia felt sure she would feel better if someone would tell her why Saul had been hurt. I know he’s good, she said to Joey, desperate. So am I. Nothing. Her want, so powerful it rose from her body and filled the room and gnashed its teeth and roared, had no effect on Saul, on Joey, on the big universal machinations guiding all of them.

So Sofia took Julia by the hand and the two of them walked the stairs back to their own apartment. Julia had hidden in the kitchen with Robbie during dinner, their play whispered, their legs crossed and sweating together. Julia curls her fingers around Sofia’s and walks in Sofia’s shadow, as close as she can, as if she might disappear into Sofia’s body. Why won’t Papa tell us what’s going on, asked Julia, but it was more of a statement: asking questions is how Julia knows to participate in collective worry. What Julia wants is more nebulous: not to know what’s happening, necessarily, but rather, not to wonder. To have the people she loves laid out in front of her like candies to choose from.