Giancarlo’s death had felt, for so many, totally unbelievable. I’d learned about it from Martina, my Italian editor and beloved friend in Rome, who emailed the word in all caps (DIED) as if to force herself to see it (I can’t stop crying); and because so many writers loved Gian, the internet filled up with sentimental remembrances from otherwise aloof people, and I made it my job to read every word that everyone had to say about him, as if that was going to be some kind of tunnel back to his apartment in Rome, a meal he and his husband served me after a long journey, fragrant with olive oil, and Gian talking, nodding, smoking, and ready, always ready, for some long and unforeseen night to arrive. That day he was still a little dazed from a night out dancing with Martina and others, so he was going to take it easy, stay in, calm down, but again he saw the dawn.