There’s another pause where we both just breathe, almost silent. On his side, I hear the bells of a distant church. It’s twelve o’clock, wherever he is. Monaco, maybe. Or Madrid, Naples. Beautiful European cities with grand histories and dramatic architecture. Places like that suit Leo. I look out the window of the cabin, into the predawn gloom, the still-violet light on the cold, dewy grass. My own car in the drive is the nearest sign of human activity. Beyond that, a gravel road, an old farmhouse, a dying town. Places like this suit me.
