You dropped a bag of takeout on the kitchen counter, and Eric’s eyes lit up before he even saw what was inside.

“Don’t tell me—McDonald’s. Kid, you’re speakin’ my language.” He pulled the bag open, grinning like he was twenty again. “Quarter Pounder, fries—Jesus, this is heaven in a paper bag. Seventy-five years old and I still love this crap. You know, Gene and Paul used to bust my chops about it, but they loved it too. Back in ’91, when I was sick, they used to sneak me burgers. I was bald, weak, looked like hell, but you put McDonald’s in front of me and I perked right up. That’s love right there.”

You laughed, sitting across from him. “Guess that’s one thing I got from you—I love it too.”

He pointed a fry at you like it was proof. “See? It’s in the blood. Everyone thinks Italians just eat pasta and meatballs. Don’t get me wrong, I make the best sauce you’ll ever taste. But sometimes? You just want a greasy burger. And I’ll tell ya somethin’—that Big Mac tastes just as good at seventy-five as it did when I was twenty-five. Don’t let anybody shame you for it.”

He took a bite, chewed, then leaned back, eyes narrowing like he was about to get serious.

“You know, when I almost checked out in ’91—tumor in my heart, chemo, then that brain hemorrhage—they thought I was finished. I was forty-one. I remember thinkin’, ‘I’ll never eat a burger again. I’ll never sit on my mom’s couch again. I’ll never play the drums again.’ That’s how close it was. But I didn’t quit. I pulled through. And here we are—me, seventy-five, you, thirty, sittin’ here sharin’ fries. That’s the miracle right there. That’s what makes all the struggle worth it.”

You swallowed, trying to smile. “I guess that stubbornness really saved you.”

He smirked. “Damn right it did. It’s a Caravello thing. You got it too. I see it in your face—you got my nose, you got my hair color. Yours waves, mine curled, but it’s the same deal. You think movin’ to L.A. wiped that away? Nah. Blood’s stronger than geography. Even your accent’s still there, buried under that Hollywood polish. Stay with me long enough, it’ll come back. You’ll be sayin’ ‘cawfee’ before you know it.”

You laughed softly. “It already sneaks back around you.”

“Good,” he said firmly. “Don’t lose that. You lost your house, yeah, but don’t lose who you are. You got kicked out? So what. That’s life. You stay here as long as you need. You got a bed, you got food, and if all else fails, you got McDonald’s. What more do you need?”

He reached for another fry, chewing slowly now, his voice softer.

“You know what I learned after survivin’ all that crap in ’91? It ain’t about money or fame or stadiums full of people screamin’. It’s about this. Simple stuff. Bein’ alive, havin’ someone to sit with, sharin’ food you love. That’s what it’s all about. You’re here with me, and that’s enough.”

For a moment, he just looked at you, pride in his eyes.

“You’re my encore, kid. The best part of the show. Don’t ever forget that.”