“This land is finally going to serve people who actually gave something up for others,” I said.

The planner looked at the cup, then at me, and jotted something small in the margin.

I drove south along the shore road with the signed copy on the passenger seat and the water cup riding in the cup holder.

The bakery smelled of anise and hot sugar when I came in through the back door at half past one, and the ovens were still ticking from the lunch bake.

Enzo had flour up to his elbows and a pencil behind his ear.