Page 20 of The English Bookstore in Bologna

Dammit, he missed Bianca. He hated that he hadn’t soaked up every second of her childhood, every moment of their time together. All he wanted was a second chance . . . but he wouldn’t dare ask to come see her. Besides, he hated to travel.

He pulled out his legal pad where he kept his to-do list. It was sadly short compared to what it used to be. He reviewed each item, scratching off what he’d already accomplished.

Fix window screen

Call bank

Buy BB Gun

Make eye appointment

Clean garage

Bird feeder: equipment, wood, disc, cayenne pepper, Vaseline, guillotine blade, remote zapper, rotating baffles

Grocery: yogurt, blueberries, burger stuff, chicken, green beans, red potatoes, lettuce, radishes, ice cream

Bianca—7am tomorrow! (be early to prepare)

Setting down the list, he shook his head, seeing those candles morphing to nails again. He had to get another job. He just had to. But who in the world hired hardware engineers in their midsixties? The world had passed him by. He couldn’t even figure out FaceTime.

It was awful that dads couldn’t talk to their daughters for real, that they couldn’t ask for their help. Because Bianca had always proved to be so wise, and he loved what she had to say. He wanted to call her back and keep talking, maybe get some advice.

Maybe ask if he could come see her.

His eyes lifted to the sky as he pondered the idea, the tug of desperately wanting to but terrified that he’d screw it up.

That’s when Mr. Nutz made his first appearance of the morning. The bastard. It was time to scramble the troops. One of them was going to die today.

George rushed through the door, nearly slipping on the mat. The tree rat was eating away, delighting in the birdseed as if it were caviar and champagne. The jealous and starving birds that were supposed to be enjoying their meal were nowhere to be found. The scoundrel did what he always did, casting a sideways glance and giving an insulting wink, before returning to his meal. Rake in hand, wishing he’d already bought the BB gun, he raced across the patio and into the rock garden.

Only at the very last minute did the squirrel dodge him. But he didn’t go far, only inches farther up the feeder. George swung the rake and smacked it right into the feeder, knocking it off its post, the feed showering down. The squirrel narrowly escaped.

Landing on all fours on a rock, Mr. Nutz stared at George, waiting for his next move.

Up the hill, a group of men was teeing off on sixteen. Thankfully, they were looking the other way.

George approached slowly, raising the rake again. “I will bury you on this land,” he warned. He came down hard with his weapon, missing the squirrel yet again. This happened several more times, until the squirrel sought refuge behind the grill on the patio.

When George pushed the grill away, the squirrel started toward the back door. George had left it open, and a potential future played in his head as he saw Mr. Nutz move in slow motion toward George’s living room, scurrying under the couch and then getting lost somewhere in the house. No being would enter his domicile uninvited, so George squeezed tight on the rake and ran like no man in his midsixties had ever run before.

What was it, a hose, a crack in the sidewalk? A misstep?

George fell forward with tremendous speed as he raced to catch his archnemesis, and only a second before he smacked the ground, he saw the rake fall in front of him, the tines sticking up. His forearm crashed into it with incredible force, and the tines jabbed into his skin, instantly drawing blood as he yelped in pain.

Everything in his body hurt as he peeled himself off the ground to meet eyes with a giggling Mr. Nutz, who gave a belly laugh before disappearing into the house with a seed-eating grin.

“Hey, sorry to bother you again,” George said to Bianca that afternoon after he’d returned from urgent care, where they’d given him a tetanus shot, disinfected the wounds, and bandaged him up. He kept his arm away from the camera so she wouldn’t see it.

“I have something I want to ask you, and I wanted to . . . Could I . . . Do you have any room for your old man? I have to leave the house for about a month for this mold thing, and I was looking at extended stays, but maybe, I don’t know . . .”

Silence. She didn’t move an inch.

He hated that he’d asked her, especially how he’d fumbled it. He added even more clumsily, “And I’m missing you like crazy.”

Dead. Silence.

“You there?”