I opened the porch door. She wasn’t hiding. There she sat, spellbound, on the polished concrete floor, looking westward as the sun set over Lake Sils, over the Maloja Pass, into Italy. This was the point to which everything led, the point from which everything flowed. “Papa, can we go there?” Becca asked, pointing at the road that ran along the lake and bent into the fading light. “Maybe next time, my love.” That was the way to Turin.
