Alex grabs Mira's sleeve and they bolt — down the side lane, past the scatter of cats, round the wine-bar corner and halfway back toward St. Tryphon's before Mira pulls up short, guidebook pressed flat to her sternum. The passports. No country, no embassy, no way home. The word lands between them like a stone. From the direction of the ramparts there is only the crinkle of foil and the wind off the bay. They exchange a look, breathe hard through their noses, and walk back — quietly this time, pressing into the shadow of the old stonework — until they stand once more at the base of the far wall staircase, the moped still silent overhead, the kid still eating.