That worked for a good number of years.

Then he met her.

The town was called San Mauro, somewhere low along the coast, with streets that smelled of salt, scooter fuel, fish that had sat too long out of ice, and alcohol spilled over wooden counters. It was one of those places that seems to belong nowhere entirely. It might have been Spain. It might have been southern Italy. It might have been any port where people arrive planning to leave quickly and remain longer than they ever meant to.