California, November 17, 1983
Morning fog still clung to the window glass when Joey opened his eyes. Joey hadn't cried the night before. Didn't whine to sleep in his mother's bed like usual either. Instead, he packed his small bag himself in silence—like a child who understood he was going far away, even if he didn't yet know how far.
His drawing book went in first, then his favorite dinosaur t-shirt—the one already torn at the right shoulder. A small dog stuffed animal named Gus was tucked in at the top, his head poking out from the zipper. Gus didn't have a left eye anymore, but Joey still hugged him every night.
The boy had been sitting on the sofa since five till six. Roxanne knew—because she heard small footsteps touch the cold wooden floor.
Without much noise, the woman approached her child, carrying a glass of milk and a piece of toast.
"You want to eat first?"
Joey shook his head, then said softly, "If I eat now, I'll get nauseous in the car."
Roxanne didn't answer. She just stared at her son longer than she should have. That small face was still innocent, but his eyes held a list of questions that couldn't be spoken.
"Did you shower?"
"With that soap that smells like leaves," Joey replied.
Roxanne smiled slightly. It was the cheap lavender soap she'd bought at the mini-mart last week.
Joey continued, "I already sprayed Gus with perfume too."
"You know you're going with him?" Roxanne asked, her voice barely a whisper.
Joey looked down briefly. "He's not a stranger."
"He's not?"
"Not like the strangers who usually come."
Roxanne frowned but didn't ask further. Joey didn't explain. Just stared at the window, as if something would emerge from behind the fog—like a ghost from the past coming to pick him up. And as if summoned by that premonition, a black car stopped in front of the house at 6:27 AM.
Joey stood even before anyone told him to.
"Wait," Roxanne said, then crouched before her son. She adjusted his bag's zipper a little, straightened his jacket collar, then touched the same blonde hair as her own. "If he gets mad, just stay quiet. Listen, but never be afraid."
"I know how to listen," Joey replied flatly.
Roxanne's breath caught. She finished the farewell by touching her son's cheek, the only one she had. "If you have a nightmare, wake him up. Adults can be woken up too, not just children."
Joey looked at his mother, then asked softly, "If I don't like it there... can I come home?"
Roxanne didn't answer immediately. Her voice choked, her eyes wet. "This door will always be open for you."
"Even if I'm not a good kid?"
"Exactly because you're my child." No matter what, Joey would always be a good kid to Roxanne—regardless of her not being a good mother.
Joey nodded once before turning and walking out.
There was the sound of sparrows from the neighbor's wire fence. Then the crunch of someone's shoes on gravel.
"Come on." The man's voice was heavy. Not forceful, but also not offering a choice.
The air was still damp and biting. Domenico stood by the car door, wearing a long coat. He said nothing when he saw Joey come out of the house. Just stared at the boy—his gaze hard, not from emotion, but from assessing.
Joey stopped in front of the car door. He tilted his head up to stare at the man for a long time.
"You're so tall... what do you eat?" The question came out innocently.
A moment of silence. Then the corner of the man's lips lifted, not a wide laugh, just a faint smile that strangely felt more unsettling than any loud noise.
"I eat what keeps me alive," he answered softly, his deep voice echoing as if from the belly of the earth.
"Yesterday, one of my cars died," Joey said lightly.
"Cars?"
Joey nodded. "The red one. The fastest one. You stepped on it." His voice was calm, not accusing. Just stating.
Domenico narrowed his eyes. There was something resembling guilt, though not strong enough to be called that. "Sorry," he said, as if the word was difficult to utter.
"It's okay. I already buried him in the flower pot." Joey shrugged. "Don't touch the blue one. He's not ready."
Domenico blinked, almost laughing—but didn't. He opened the car door. "Get in. Sit in the back."
Joey glanced at his shoes before getting in. "Do I have to wear a seatbelt?"
"Always."
Joey fastened the seatbelt himself. His hand still gripped his dog stuffed animal.
Domenico was about to get in the front seat, but Roxanne called softly from the doorway. "Nico!"
The man turned.
"He likes bedtime stories."
Domenico stared at Roxanne for a long time, but didn't answer. Nor did she—in this moment of parting that held intensity in its silence.
Their silence wasn't weakness, but their most honest form of communication. Roxanne was too tired to cry, and Domenico was too hard to comfort. However, both knew that the little boy—sitting in the back seat hugging his broken stuffed animal—was the axis of this separation. And Joey himself, with his innocence, stitched that wound with a simple but impactful sentence.
"You ever had a kid?"
Domenico was already in the car, his eyes glancing at the rearview mirror. "Never."
"Good," Joey murmured, staring out the window. "I've never had a dad either."
The car started. The wheels drove away. Joey glanced back at the empty street in front of the house.
The old oak tree by the fence—whose leaves always yellowed faster than the others. The utility pole with the scribbled number 1991. And the tracks of his own feet in the damp ground.
The boy didn't yet realize—for a very long time, he wouldn't see any of that again.
His last California wasn't the beach, wasn't the sun, wasn't the city lights. It was his home, the morning dew, and a mother who couldn't speak as she let go of her child.
*
The ceiling light glowed dimly when night fell in Los Angeles. The room was quiet—two beds, a large window with half-closed curtains, faint traffic noise from a distance. The scent of hotel soap and old carpet hung in the air.
Joey sat on the edge of the bed, still wearing his jacket. Gus lay in his lap, his ear folded back. He swung his dangling feet, not touching the floor. Across from him, Domenico was unpacking a suitcase. He hadn't spoken much since they entered the room.
Joey looked at the TV remote but didn't turn it on. "You know, my mom used to bring men home to stay overnight," he informed him.
Domenico stopped moving. Just for a moment. Then he folded a shirt with slower hands.
"Sometimes she wouldn't come home," Joey continued softly, "and when she came back really early in the morning, she'd say she stayed at a hotel."
There was no resentment in his voice. No accusation. Just the statement of a young child used to living by adult logic—without fully understanding it all, but knowing enough.
Domenico didn't answer immediately.
Joey turned to him, his eyes narrowing slightly. "You're not the only man who's been close to my mom."
There was a heavy pause in the air, as if the hotel air itself held its breath. Domenico looked at Joey from a distance. Those eyes were cold as usual—but this time, his silence wasn't from authority, but because he wasn't prepared.
"Does that bother you?" Domenico finally asked.
Joey shook his head. "I just want to know... if you knew those things." He looked down. "'Cause I know."
Domenico walked slowly to the side of Joey's bed. He knelt, leveling his eyes with the boy. His left hand touched Joey's shoulder—not forcing, not comforting, just offering presence.
"I know your mother wasn't always strong," he said softly. "But she gave you the world she could."
Joey looked into his eyes. Not fully trusting. But not rejecting either.
"A world full of locked doors and loud noises at night," he murmured.
Domenico was silent again. Then, finally, he stood. "Shower. After that you can sleep."
Joey slowly took off his jacket. Then, while walking to the bathroom, he said without turning around. "If I have a nightmare, you'll wake up, right?"
Domenico answered, "Yes."
"Don't lie. My mom said 'yes' too, but she rarely woke up."
Silence. Water from the tap began to flow from inside the bathroom.
Domenico stared at the closed bathroom door. Then he took a long breath, took off his tie, and sat at the foot of the bed—for the first time that night, staring at a blank wall and not knowing what to think.
*
Over the Atlantic Ocean, November 19, 1983
The sky outside the window stretched endlessly, pure white below with layers of cotton clouds, while above, pale blue blazed without limit. The plane glided silently in that masterpiece of soundlessness, slicing through the sky as if the world below had lost its voice.
Joey sat in the window seat, his seatbelt still fastened neatly. His thin jacket was no longer enough to keep him warm. Gus, his worn-out stuffed dog, lay in his lap. In the seat pocket in front of him, his drawing book was visible with a blunt pencil poking out.
Domenico beside him was absorbed in documents from a leather folder—neat white shirt, dark tie, wool coat hung neatly. He edited and marked with full concentration, as if this were just ordinary business, not a journey transporting a child across continents.
Joey had spent his time counting clouds, doodling pages with imaginary airplanes, and trying to sleep. But sleeping at altitude turned out to be quieter than he'd imagined.
"Are you a bad person?" Joey's voice broke the silence, sudden but flat.
Domenico didn't turn, only his fingers stopped marking the document. "Why do you ask that?"
"Because all the good people are always afraid of you."
"People are afraid of what they don't understand," Domenico answered shortly, still not looking at him.
Joey stared out the window. A long pause stretched before he spoke again, "Sometimes they're afraid because they know."
Domenico remained silent, returning to his documents.
"Have you ever killed anyone?"
The question floated like a breath—without weight, without accusation.
Domenico still didn't answer, just slipped another sheet into the folder.
Joey looked down, whispered softly, "That means it's not 'no', right?"
Finally Domenico closed his folder. He placed it on the fold-down tray and leaned back, his dark brown eyes piercing sharply. "Are you afraid?"
"Not yet," Joey answered innocently.
Silence. That answer hung between them—unsatisfying, but undeniable.
A few minutes passed in silence.
"Can my mom come later?" Joey asked again.
Domenico stared at the ceiling briefly before his gaze shifted out the window. "No."
"Why?"
"Because this is a one-way trip."
Joey didn't continue. But his hug on Gus grew tighter, as if the stuffed animal was the only reminder of the life he'd left behind.
Twenty minutes later, his small voice was heard again. "Will the people in your house be mad if I stay there?"
Domenico thought for a moment. "No. But they won't be friendly."
Joey nodded in understanding. "I don't need friendliness. I just need a room."
"A room?"
"To sleep... and think."
Domenico now turned fully, attentive. "What do you usually think about?"
Joey stared out the window, his eyes glistening in the light. "Things I can't ask twice."
Domenico looked at him for a long time. Then he reached for a blanket from the overhead bin and handed it over. "Sleep. It's still far."
Joey accepted it without protest. He tucked Gus under his chin, turned over, and gazed at the passing clouds beyond the window, carrying with him unanswered questions in a silent embrace.
[•°]