MILO’S POV

We don’t go to the farmhouse. Instead, we stream past it, into an overgrown olive orchard where rotting fruit turns to mush beneath our feet. The trunks may be massive, three people linking arms probably wouldn’t connect around some of them, but you can tell no farmer has lovingly worked in the rows. Insects have eaten holes through the leaves, and some dead trees have tipped over like a drunkard at a wedding reception, leaning on their neighbors for ...