The next time Henry opened his eyes, it was morning. He sucked in a breath, for just one thin moment afraid that he didn’t know where he was, his recent history, or maybe even who he was.
And then reality filtered in, as it had a way of doing on bright summer mornings. The air coming in through Vito’s bedroom window smelled fresh, washed clean by the thunderstorms of the night before.
Henry was alone in the bed, although noises filtered in from the kitchen—the dogs’ toenails clicking on the tile floor, the soft hum of classical music, the sizzle of something frying, the slap of a refrigerator closing. Henry could smell bread and melted butter, and it made his mouth water. He sat up straighter in bed, realizing he hadn’t eaten in a very long time.
Just as he was ready to throw his legs o
