His legs went out from under him, and the grandfather who had found him at the roadside caught him again now, on the polished floor of his own grand hall, calling his name.

Hours later, the director of the hospital came out of the intensive care unit with a face that told the news before his words did.

“Don Aurelio,” he said gently.

“Your grandson is in a coma.

His liver is failing.

And unless we find a compatible donor very soon — I have to tell you the truth — he could die.” The most terrible truth of that long month was not the aunt, or the ambulance, or the fifteen wasted years.

It was this: that Aurelio might find his grandson only to lose him.