Gliding down the boulevard toward the lake, the metallic-gray Volvo V70 rolled across the sizzling asphalt, its tires occasionally veering toward the right curb. The car had long since entered its second decade, but it held up — decently preserved, though nothing on it was new anymore. Except for the scratches.

  Once, it had arrived in the family brand new — a minivan with plastic still on the seats, tight and polished, smelling of plastic and promises. Now it bore the scars of time: bumpers gnawed by years of parking, a faded Baby on Board sticker dangling from the rear window, and a front right steel rim that stood out among the aluminum ones like an ugly duckling among swans.

  It was driven by a man whose mind was far more misaligned than that lone rim.

  He gripped the steering wheel tightly with both hands, eyes locked ahead, occasionally jerking the wheel to the left.

  “Damn tire…” he muttered. “Left everything in the garage — the jack, the pump.”

  Another tug on the wheel. A crooked smile.

  “At least I changed the wheel in time.”

  He was thirty-five. Once, he had a good job — in fact, he had everything, until one wrong decision cost the company fourteen million euros. They threw him out like a mangy dog.

  He considered himself lucky. At least he didn’t have to pay it back.

  He reached for the cigarette lighter out of habit — but the socket gaped, empty. He had never smoked, and smoking in the car had once been strictly forbidden. He placed the cigarette back in the pack, and the pack in the glove compartment.

  Ahead, the boulevard gave way to a road that curved toward the lake.

  This would be it — the place for his first night without a roof over his head.

  Why was he homeless?

  Simple. Misfortune never comes alone.

  After losing his job, his wife of seventeen years — mother of their two children — filed for divorce. She had an excellent lawyer and took everything: the apartment, the belongings, the accounts, the assets.

  All he had left was the old station wagon — and the dog.

  “Where are you, you little devil…” he murmured, glancing in the rearview mirror, trying to spot Charlie.

  “Charlie!” he called.

  From under the back seat, a black dachshund emerged. He leapt onto the center console and began licking his face, tail wagging like a maestro’s baton.

  “There we are, Charlie. Almost there. A place where no one will bother us tonight.”

  Charlie was seven. A tenth-anniversary gift for his wife.

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  She had never liked dogs — and he had known that, or at least should have. From the beginning, Charlie had been his responsibility. One of the two best friends he’d ever had.

  They passed the ramp near the lake. Because of the City Day celebration, all public parking and rest areas were free — making the lake an obvious choice for a first night under the stars.

  He parked far from the entrance, close to the water.

  “This’ll do,” he said, turning off the engine.

  The motor exhaled softly, as if relieved to no longer labor in the heat.

  The sun dipped low, casting golden rays across the lake, rippling gently on the surface. A family of ducks glided near the shore.

  Beside the car, he crouched, trying to spark a fire by rubbing sticks together — hoping to warm a can of ready-made stew.

  “Come on… come on… This used to be easier…” he muttered, rolling the stick between his palms.

  Charlie lay nearby, chewing his evening treat and glancing at him from time to time. When their eyes met, Charlie would quickly cover the treat with his paws — just in case.

  “Damn it!” he snapped, flinging the stick into the water.

  He sat still for a long while, head resting on his knees, arms dangling between his thighs — like he no longer knew what to do with them.

  Across the lake came the sound of a guitar, and the cheerful singing of young people clearly celebrating something. Their laughter, carried over the water, made his silence feel even deeper.

  Then Charlie approached.

  He dropped part of his treat at his feet and nudged his shin gently with his snout.

  “You little fool…” he murmured, stroking his head. “You’re the only one looking out for me.”

  He smiled for the first time that day and returned the treat.

  “This is yours, little guy.”

  Charlie wagged his tail like he’d just received a medal and resumed gnawing, content.

  The man opened a can of cold beans with sausage, grabbed a plastic fork, and took a bite without much thought.

  “It could be worse than this…” he whispered — more to himself than to Charlie.

  The dog stretched out in front of him, watching the lake like it was a screen. The two of them — dining under the open sky — shared a silence no one else could understand.

  They stayed that way a while longer, wrapped in quiet and the distant music of strangers on the far shore. And when he finally closed his eyes, it felt... normal. Ordinary. Like before.

  He remembered evenings when he’d come home from work, turn on the radio, and sink into his armchair by the window, eyes closed for half an hour. The kids would be at practice or language lessons. His wife, in a nearby café with the other mothers, waiting.

  That had been his time. Thirty minutes of silence.

  Of course, Charlie would always join. He’d lie at his feet or — on rare, privileged days — curl up in his lap and doze on his stomach.

  There was no armchair now.

  But there were no interruptions either.

  He could sleep as long as he wanted.

  Still, he didn’t feel happy.

  He already missed that old peace.

  “Let’s go to sleep, Charlie,” he said, opening the car door.

  Charlie jumped in and settled in the passenger seat like he was checking into a five-star hotel.

  “So you’ve chosen your bed already,” the man chuckled, reclining the driver’s seat. “Good night, Charlie.”

  A short bark replied — a wish for good night.

  But the night was anything but easy.

  His position was uncomfortable. His knees ached. Mosquitoes had already bitten him at least seven times. The music from the other shore, once pleasant, had devolved into a drunken mess.

  He envied Charlie, who slept on his back, paws in the air, breathing easy.

  He stepped out to stretch.

  The air was fresh — scented with earth, lake, and summer night.

  A few stretches. His joints cracked — a clear sign the days of sleeping anywhere were long gone.

  He tried the front seat again. Nothing.

  Moved to the back.

  Folded his jacket into a makeshift pillow.

  At over six feet tall, he couldn’t stretch out, but at least he had more options. And he didn’t have to sleep on his back.

  It took time.

  But he fell asleep.

  Just for a moment.

  And it was enough.