To walk beside him, dressed akin to him, rucksacked and companionable, was bliss in itself; each step she took was like stepping once more across the threshold of heaven. This laughter released something that had been striving for expression—her own natural buoyancy. She didn’t trust Gianfrancesco, you know, she called him a ‘bad husband’. As he passed along the main thoroughfare, he heard his own name pronounced, and found that it was a hawker, crying a penny history of his escapes. He greeted the corpulent boy at the register, whose tag read, \"MY NAME IS Jason\" with familiarity. The house was full of aunts, uncles, and cousins meandering about, stuffed until their seams and zippers were bursting.
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