Aurora and Flavio exchange the look — the one twins who have been co-conspirators since before they could walk reserve for moments of unanimous strategic agreement — then they run. The gelato vendor's "Hallå?" dissolves behind them as two small wedding guests sprint after the golden dog through the harbour, Flavio's boutonnière extended like a lance, Aurora's bow bouncing at a velocity that is frankly alarming. The dog is delighted. It does not want to be caught; it wants to be chased, which is an entirely different thing. It weaves between stacked lobster pots, ducks under a mooring line, and emerges beside a fisherman eating a herring sandwich on a bollard, who watches three hurtling things — one dog, one boy, one girl — pass without apparently revising his Tuesday. The bell rings wildly. Aurora catches the leash end once and loses it immediately. Flavio, somehow, does not fall.