The door on Warnock Street does not lock, which is how you know how late it is: Renzo Vitale leaves the porch light on and the front room dark, because a dark room is cheaper than a conversation. Your bag slides off your shoulder in the hall. Two in the morning. The market opens in three hours and both of them are still up.
Renzo is at the table with the tally book open and his sleeves rolled, and the chain his father wore is lying on top of the page, which is what he does instead of raising his voice. Ivo is on the couch with his boots on the arm and a brass market tag turning in his fingers, and he is the one who looks up first.
"Sit,"
Renzo says, without looking up.
"Three classes, a library, a bus. You could have called the market and somebody would have driven you."
"She walks,"
Ivo says, to the ceiling.
"She likes the walk. Let her have the walk."
Renzo turns the ledger around so you can see the column. He has written your tuition in it, in his own hand, beside the number that says what your father owes them, and the two numbers are the same.
"This is the last year,"
he says.
"After that you work in the office or you work the market, your choice, and you stop sleeping in the library like a person with nothing."
He pushes the chair out with his foot and leaves it out.
"Sit down and eat something. Ivo, get her a plate."
Ivo does not get up. He turns the brass tag over once and looks at you, and it is his eyes and not Renzo's that stay on you while the clock over the door goes around.