Walking towards the tavern at dawn, an old man named Milardo carried his bag. As he approached the squat white building with its bright red shutters burning in the morning sun, he turned his face away. He looked over the wooden fence at the cows grazing. He wondered what it would be like to be a cow, lazing all day in the wide, open green pastures—not a care in the world. But then the bag, as if sensing his reverie, seemed to weigh heavier on his shoulders. It began pulling him towards the ...
