Once he had run out of breath for more sentences, he lowered himself to his kitchen floor, leaned his back on the refrigerator door, laughing until tears splotched his cheeks. Lifting his head, he met my eyes. “Come here!” He did not even pull the phone away from his face as he reached out one of his Michelangelo-sculpted arms to me. “No, no,” he continued in English, drawing me into his conversation. “Not you, Tilen—God knows you won’t come here. Although you should humble yourself for Hana and David, and”—he raised my fingers to his lips when I sat down beside him—“so that you could meet
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