Slowly, I approach, pausing beside the table. I reach toward Karissa, cupping her chin, tilting it, as my thumb strokes her cheek. Leaning down, I kiss her softly. "Sorry it took so long."

"Oh, it's fine," she says, her cheeks flushing as I pull away. She waves across the table. "Gave your dad and I a chance to chat."

"About?"

Karissa starts to speak, her mouth opening, but my father beats her to it, uttering a lone word: "Memories."

Memories.

"Interesting." I look at him. He doesn't look very happy. He never is when I'm around, but usually it's anger and disappointment I sense. Today I see exhaustion. "Care to share any with me?"

He leans back in his chair, regarding me for a moment, before nodding. "I got one for you."

I motion for him to go on.

"It was twenty years ago," he says. "You were still a teenager, barely eighteen, just a kid yourself."

Worst year of my life.

Memories from that year are cast in a haze of pain and loss. It's hard to remember the sun even rising back then, hard to remember a day that wasn't dark.

I almost tell him not to bother. Almost tell him not to go on. But whatever he has to say, I'm going to let him say it; I'll let him say his piece and then I'll be gone.

"I remember the year well," I tell him. "Kind of hard to forget it all."

"Then let me tell you something you might not know," he says. "One morning, on the way to the deli, I ran into Raymond Angelo. He told me his daughter was expecting a baby, that he was going to be a grandfather. Now, I wasn't a fool… she was your wife then, so I knew the kid was yours. I congratulated him, since that was what he wanted. And I went home that night, and I told your mother the news."

Okay, he's right… I've never heard this story.

I'm not sure I like where it's going, though.

"Your mother, she was ecstatic. She said you'd be a great father, because you learned from the best there ever was. I agreed with her, you know, because she was your mother, but I didn't believe it. You see, by then, Angelo already had his claws in you, and judging by his reaction, he wanted his claws in that baby, too. Figured the kid was doomed."

From my peripheral, I can see Karissa squirming.

She isn't so sure about this conversation, either.

"But, you know, what happened happened, and twenty years later, here we are… another baby. Your mother's not around now, not here for me to share the news, but I know what she'd say if she was."

He pauses, staring at me.

He doesn't say the words, but I know what they are.

You'll be a great father, because you learned from the best there ever was.

"I've got a memory for you," I say. "I was twelve or so. It was the summer you brought me here to work."

He nods. "I remember it."

"You taught me how to use a knife. I spent all summer in the back, chopping everything up for you. I loved it, you know, but I needed more practice. The knife slipped sometimes when I lost my focus. One day, the last day you let me back there, I made a mistake and cut my finger. Blood was everywhere, all over me, all over the table, all over everything I'd been chopping that morning. I thought I was bleeding out. I felt woozy. I yelled for you, and you ran back there. You took one look at me, and do you remember what you said?"

He just stares at me. Of course he remembers.

"You said, God damn you, Ignazio, you're ruining my food! Point is, based on that, my parenting's probably going to need some work."

His expression cracks when I say that. A small smile plays on his lips. Shoving his chair back, he wordlessly stands up, leaning over and kissing Karissa on the cheek. "If you ever need me, you know where I am."

He steps toward me then, pausing in front of me, and reaches over, squeezing my shoulder. It only lasts a few seconds, as he looks at me with the closest thing to pride as I've seen in his eyes since that summer years ago.

Letting go, he shakes his head, muttering as he walks away. "Get out of here, Ignazio, and for everyone's sake, please don't ever come back."

I just stand there as he walks away, disappearing into the back. My gaze shifts back across the deli, toward the television. I'm instantly greeted with a peculiar headline. It's scrolling across the bottom of the screen: Fatal Attack in Long Island

Leave and never come back. That sounds about right.

"You, uh... um..." I look at Karissa when she talks, stammering a bit. She's motioning toward my chest, pointing with her finger. "You've got grass on your shirt."

"Oh." I look down at it. "Yeah."

"Do I want to know?"

"Probably not."

"Well then." She stands up, pushing her chair in. "How about we get out of here?"

"Got everything you want?"

Naz's voice is quiet as he asks that question, standing behind me, in the doorway to the den. A duffel bag lay at my feet, my pictures stashed in it, along with enough clothes to probably last me a week. Killer is running around out back, home from the vet, feeling much better. Nothing was broken.

Is that everything I want?

I'm not sure.

But I certainly don't need anything else.

"I think so," I reply, not wanting to lie. "Honestly, I don't really know."

"Take your time," he says. "We'll leave whenever you're sure."

Whenever I'm sure. If that's what we're waiting for, we'll both die of old age right here in this room. I've never been sure about much, really, except for him.

I'm sure about him.

He might boil me alive before it's all over with, but I'm here, with him, because I'm sure this is where I belong.

"You really don't want to take any of these books?" I ask, glancing around the packed room. Nothing looks out of place. It's all just there, where it has always been, maybe where it'll always be, unless we come back for it. "Like... none of this?"

He lets out a resigned sigh. "No."

I turn to him. He's got a duffel bag, too, but it's only filled with clothes and shoes. "Not even The Prince?"

He smiles softly at my question. His favorite book. "It's got a bit of water damage, remember?"

"Ugh, don't remind me," I tell him. "I still feel bad about that. I almost bought you another copy for your birthday, but I figured it probably wouldn't be the same."

He doesn't agree, but he doesn't deny it either.

"Don't feel bad. Besides, I don't need it anymore. I've told you before, it's all up in here." He taps a finger to his temple. "Everything's up here. All of my memories, good and bad. I forget none of it. I don't have to take this stuff along with me to remember any of it. Memories are all that matter."

Ironic, really, since some of my memories I'd love to forget. Naz, though, embraces it. He doesn't let his memories define who he is. While I always envied Melody's resilience, it's really Naz's tenacity that I wish I had. Nothing ever holds that man down.

"I think I'm sure, then."

He laughs. "You think?"

I turn to him, turning my back to the bookshelves, and smile. I know how ridiculous it sounds. "Yeah, I fear that's as good as I'm getting."