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Two men pass each other on the road to Naples at midday; where the road goes otherwise is immaterial. It is nineteen thirty-seven.

They tip their hats and smile, to themselves really, having no other connection at that moment than sore feet and the promise of a meal further on. That should be enough, but it's not. It's hot and dusty, the occasional mule cart stirring up the air just enough for it to be an annoyance. The flies are the size of bottle caps.

These two men, a farmer and a banker not that it matters, pass each other and nod in recognition that they are businessmen, and that they are on the clock. They are professional and dignified.

When the farmer arrives home, he will have his wife set the table for three. He will explain that a banker will be arriving to join them and that they met on the road to Naples.

Only when the banker's shadow crosses the threshold that evening, clothes dusty from the road and brow furrowed to keep the sweat from dripping in his eyes, will he again call the farmer his son.

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