That night we woke to boats dredging the river. The government had declared this a protected area, so they worked at night, as if they didn’t want to be discovered. The stench of diesel reached the tents. The monstrous noise punctured the moist cool night, and I opened my dazed eyes in the darkness and couldn’t remember where I was.

A few nights after coming home, I went by to see my brother and then my parents. It was getting dark when I entered my father’s office: he was busy trying to reboot his slow tablet, and he hadn’t thought to turn on a light. While the clocks hadn’t been turned back yet, the days were growing shorter, and I’d ridden my Vespa with my parka zipped to my chin. His office was dark, but there was still color in the sky above the pines; some kids were shouting below in the park, forcing their nanny to lecture them in broken Italian.

I gave my father a kiss on the head, took his tablet from him, and knelt at his feet. The gadget in my hands now, I searched the menu for applications taking up the most space, got him to tell me which ones he didn’t need, and deleted them. I showed him everything was working faster now. It was then that I asked if I could have Barbara cosign for the apartment, and he said yes.

I went to the notary with my wife—the first time I’d been to that office without my father. Barbara was dressed like a piece of candy, with me in a sweatshirt, jeans, and trainers with gold laces, and the notary, not much older than us, in a blue suit, no tie.

One November morning, the independent publisher I worked for just dropped by though he knew I was home revising a translation: he was in the neighborhood looking at houses for sale. He asked if he could come in; I made him an espresso, talked about the strengths of the neighborhood, but after these civilities, he told me the real reason for his visit: Asia would be reinstated at the end of her maternity leave. He had no choice but to “bring her back on board.”

“And?” I pressed him, “What then?” I knew he liked my confrontational style: he was sly and rich and lazy.

“You would go back to … well…” His “we-eell” sounded something like a bleat.

“I will go back,” I corrected him, offended now.

“To being an external consultant.”

“To being a freelancer?”

He still held the tiny espresso cup I’d handed him. “Yes,” he said.