Mira steps forward, guidebook open for authority rather than information, and fixes the Kid with the look that has cowed hostel receptionists across four countries. "Explain," she says. The Kid finishes the second-to-last crisp without urgency. Then he says something in rapid Montenegrin. Alex's phone translates it, haltingly, as: the view. Both of them turn. The Bay of Kotor spreads below — terracotta rooftops, sheer limestone walls dropping into silver water, a cruise ship in the harbour sitting like a very large tourist who arrived by accident. It is objectively extraordinary. The Kid speaks again; the phone renders it as: you were looking at your phones the whole time. There is a silence during which Alex notices his camera was never once uncapped, and Mira realises she has walked the entire old town with her face in the guidebook. The Kid holds out the last crisp.