The man looked up. Pino saw how young he was. They could have been the same age, though he was twisted and aged beyond what Pino could fathom. “You speak like a Milanese, but you wear a Nazi uniform,” he croaked. “It’s complicated,” Pino said. “Drink the water.” He drank a sip, and then gulped it down just as eagerly as the other seven had. “Who are you?” Pino said when he’d finished. “Who are these others?” The man looked at Pino as if he were studying a bug. “My name is Antonio,” he said. “And we’re slaves. Every last one of us.”