She went inside the café to find it packed and smelling more of body odor than of delicious coffee and baked goods. There wasn’t a seat to be found. Lugging her bag inside, she lifted it up into her arms when she realized it was causing a bottleneck at the door. She stood there for a few moments, waiting. Every time she saw an opening at a table, someone else swooped in and took it. Finally, a man with a goatee stood up from a high table in the corner. She pounced on it, throwing her elbows on it to claim it before she realized it was covered with powdered sugar and something sticky. Grimacing, she wiped at the fabric of her shirt, noticing an odd brown stain there. Caramel, maybe. Lovely.

A waitress with a messy bun and one eyebrow raised in a rather disinterested way sauntered over to her, pad at the ready. “Oui?”

Staring at her itinerary, she decided now was as good a time as any to try out her rusty French and order that mille fieule she’d seen on the website for the place. It had looked delicious. She said, in the best accent she could muster, channeling Stéphane, “Puis-je prendre un café et un mille fieule, s'il vous plait.” Can I please have a coffee and a mille fieule?

The woman stared at her like she had something wedged between her front teeth. Then she said simply, “No.”

Diana looked around. At the many packed tables surrounding her, people were enjoying coffees and pastries. Why couldn’t she? Was this because she was American? She’d heard the long-standing rumor about how the French didn’t particularly care for Americans, which was actually why she’d been reluctant to talk to Stéphane at first. But he’d proven her wrong, definitely, and since then all she had to do was hear someone speaking in a French accent to have a warm, fuzzy feeling inside.

This had to just be a misunderstanding. “Um . . . café?”

The waitress nodded, a brooding look on her face. “Oui . . .et . . .?”

Okay, at least she was getting somewhere now. But she’d really wanted that French pastry. The woman stared at her, impatient, so Diana blurted the first thing that came to her mind. “Croissant?”

The woman nodded and rushed away into the swell of the crowd.

Okay, no mille fieule. If that was the worst thing that happened, it was no tragedy.

Diana let out the breath she’d been holding and looked around. The place was hot and stuffy and cramped with a low ceiling that seemed in danger of crushing them, and now—a new odor greeted her nostrils. Someone—or many someones—had recently smoked cigarettes because, though there was no smoke in the air, the stench was thicker than it had been in the cab. That and . . . something that strongly smelled like urine.

Trying to breathe through her mouth, she rummaged through her purse and pulled out her hand sanitizer. Giving herself a little spritz, she found her phone. As she did, she noticed two men, probably the age of Bea, staring intently at her. They wore t-shirts and faded jeans, and they were unshaven. Their hair was long and unkempt. One of them had a man-bun, and the other had a Rastafarian beanie.