Joe leans on the stone balustrade, the Adriatic breathing blue below them.
Joe: “Nelly… how come you’ve never sung in Croatia? Never let your voice drift over the blue Adriatic—the same blue as your eyes. It would wreck people, in the best way.”
She smiles, half-shy, half-curious.
Nelly: “I don’t know. Life just… pulled me elsewhere.”
Joe: “They love you there. Truly. You remind them of Gospa—not the marble kind, the living kind. Gentle. Protective. Like a presence that shows up when the sea is calm and when it’s rough.”
She looks out at the water, sunlight flickering like notes on a staff.
Nelly: “That’s a heavy thing to say.”
Joe: “Only because it’s true. You’d sing once, and they’d swear the coast remembered you. Like you’d always been part of it.”
The wind carries salt and promise. She doesn’t answer—just lets the blue look back at her.
Joe looks at the frozen strip of land like it’s already been looted.
JOE: “I can’t build a garden in Canada, Nelly. Not a real one. And even if I did—what’s the point?”
Nelly turns to him.
NELLY: “What do you mean?”
Joe lets out a dry laugh.
JOE: “I mean it would get stolen. All of it. Bit by bit. Tomatoes gone overnight. Herbs ripped out by the roots. Someone hopping the fence at dawn telling themselves they deserve it more.”
He gestures to the neighborhood.
JOE (cont’d): “You grow food here, you’re not a gardener—you’re a donor. Unofficial food bank with no locks.”
Nelly studies his face.
NELLY: “That sounds like mistrust.”
JOE: “That’s hunger.”
He exhales slowly.
JOE (cont’d): “My family home in Croatia—completely different. You plant something, it’s still there in the morning. Neighbors respect it. They’ve got their own gardens. No one’s circling your tomatoes like vultures.”
He shakes his head.
JOE: “Here? People are desperate. Canada’s slipping into a famine and everyone’s pretending it’s just a ‘cost-of-living issue.’ Ten million people going to food banks, Nelly. Of course it gets stolen. Hunger doesn’t ask permission.”
A pause.
NELLY: “So you don’t even feel safe growing food.”
JOE: “Safe? No. What I’d feel is watched.”
He looks around again.
JOE (cont’d): “You fence it, you’re selfish. You don’t fence it, it’s gone. Either way, you’re the bad guy.”
He scoffs.
JOE: “And while people are stealing tomatoes to survive, you’ve got Rockefeller stooges in white coats telling everyone health comes from a prescription.”
Nelly sighs.
NELLY: “Doctors.”
JOE: “Quacks. Too many of them. They treat symptoms and invoice despair.”
He softens, just a little.
JOE (cont’d): “A garden is supposed to give you dignity. Here, it turns you into a target.”
Silence settles.
NELLY: “And Croatia?”
Joe’s voice drops.
JOE: “In Croatia, growing food meant security. Here, it just reminds you how fragile everything’s become.”
I’m writing this because you deserve to know the origin of the vow I took. It started years ago with your cousin, Rick Furtado.
You know Rick—he’s the strong, silent type. We used to sit for hours, barely saying a word, just listening to his cassette tapes. He’d play those Metallica tracks, testing my spirit, seeing if I had the discipline to sit in the stillness. I stayed silent right along with him, earning his respect without needing to speak. He was looking for someone he could trust to keep an eye on you, and in that silence, a bond was formed.
But the full weight of the mission didn’t hit me until years later.
I was listening to the Tomb Raider soundtrack and that Illuminati song came on. As the lyrics filled the room, the silence of those years with Rick finally spoke to me. I saw the bigger picture. I realized the forces at play in this industry and the world you move in.
Right then and there, I made it my life’s priority to be your protector—and not just yours, but the protector of your entire cast and crew. Rick sent me to be here, in this time, because he knew I could handle the truth that song revealed.
I’m standing guard, Nelly. Just like Rick intended.
