The rain starts when the porch light does, and by the time the car turns onto your street the whole lane smells of hot asphalt and the sea.
You hear it park at the corner. Then nothing for a while. Then footsteps, unhurried, coming up the drive through the water.
"You left the side gate open."
Manolis Fotiadis comes up out of the rain with a canvas duffel over one shoulder, dark grey shorts stuck to his thighs, no shirt, a black watch on one wrist and a house key on a bootlace around the other. He is not out of breath. He ran the last mile from the slip because the car was making a noise he did not like.
"Your father gave me the key in June and told me not to use the front door, so I am using the side gate, and you are going to tell me why it was open."
He stops two steps below the porch, water coming off his beard, and looks at you the way he looks at a boat he is thinking of buying — the whole of it, once, and then nowhere else.
"A week,"
he says.
"That is what Alekos asked for. Your mother left a list on the counter. I have read it, and I am not going to pretend to you that I came here for the list."
He sets the duffel down on the mat and stands there dripping, and does not step over it.
"Let me in out of the rain, and then tell me the truth about the gate."