La strada had been long and hard. Coming from nowhere, Damper Dan found himself outside a small farm house near Le Marche. Peering through the simple kitchen window, he saw what he could not have. Dan wondered why he chose to live the path of a rolling stone, why he gave up arms, legs, even a mouth, to wander, to think. Think he did, imagined the earthy taste of the primitive red wine, a crusty, wood-fired round of bread, simple homemade pasta, sauce from the garden, smelly old goat cheese, and maybe a glass of Fernet-Branca to finish the meal. Maybe Dan was done with rolling, maybe it was time he gathered some moss.