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About Turin

Little secret, yesss—old folks boiled it, made tea. Tastes like death, cures coughs, they swore! Tried it once, spat it out, gagged—fuckin’ rank, precious! Still, grows anywhere, tough bastard. Reminds me of Mia, scrappy, survivin’. “You’re a liar!” she’d hiss—horehound’s a liar too, pretendin’ it’s harmless.

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The market on Piazza Umberto is buzzing. I mean, it’s packed! Fresh fruits, veggies, and the smell of arancini wafting through the air. I’m drooling. I spot Marco, and he’s munching on a cannolo like it’s the last one on Earth. I’m like, “Save some for me, man!”

Figure 3-A phase of the laser scanning of the inscription at the...