They bolt back through the old town, Mira sprinting with the guidebook open — a feat that belongs in the Olympics. "North gate, then follow the wall east!" she calls, which assumes Alex knows where east is (he doesn't). They dodge a wedding party spilling from St. Tryphon's, scatter a cat convention outside a wine bar, and arrive gasping at the base of the far wall staircase just as the moped's putt-putt grows louder overhead. They press flat against the stonework on either side of the exit, the world's sweatiest ambush team. The engine noise peaks — and then cuts out. Silence, broken only by their own wheezing. A shadow falls across the top of the staircase. Something small and crinkly bounces down the steps and lands at Alex's feet: a crisp packet. Their crisp packet. The Moped Kid is up there eating their snacks.