Alex takes both crisps. There is no ceremony in it — dignity evacuated somewhere between the cat convention and the second flight of stairs. Mira lowers the guidebook but does not put it away, because putting it away would be a concession. "What else?" she asks. The Kid tilts his head, assessing, then reaches into his hoodie and produces a folded paper: their dinner reservation. Konoba Scala Santa, tonight, seven o'clock, waterfront table. He holds it between two fingers like a trump card. He also, he adds with a sideways nod at Alex's camera, took one photograph on the way up the wall — the Kotor bay from the best angle on the whole circuit, which is up here, not from the waterfront restaurants that charge twice the price for half the view. He seems to feel this makes them even. His expression suggests he is not entirely wrong.