The kid grins — the grin of someone who has done this before — and swings the moped down the slope toward town. Alex and Mira hurtle after him, descending the rampart stairs in a clatter of sandals and indignation, back into the labyrinth of medieval streets. The cobblestones remain unhelpful. They keep the red hoodie in sight through three tight corners and a square where someone is calmly hanging laundry between what appear to be Roman columns. The moped threads an archway barely wide enough for its handlebars, then stops — abruptly, casually, completely — in a small sunny courtyard. The kid kills the engine. He hops off, leaves the bag sitting on the back seat entirely unattended, and walks into a bakery. Not a sprint. Not a dash. A stroll, the stroll of a man with errands. Alex and Mira arrive, breathing like damaged accordions, and stare at the bag, then at each other.