leaves on the tree in a grass-covered lawn that’s often difficult to find in Brooklyn. The sun is setting behind the house, and its halo of light dances along the rooftop. Giovanni lifts each of our bags out of the trunk and passes them to Pierce while I take a moment to inhale the crisp, late afternoon air. Instead of the fresh, clean scent of Pinegrove, I almost choke on the acrid odor of vehicle emissions, the nearby food market, and the ever-present New York garbage. None have been missed. It’s time I get used to them again though. Uncle Paulie and Pierce flank me. The former’s
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