Ana exhaled; she hadn’t even realized she’d been holding her breath. She dropped the cigarette and slumped against the boulder. The Dutch girl shook her head.

Fucking bears, she muttered again.

In another minute Pars returned, panting, beaming, his trousers wet.

That was foolish, Ana remarked, a little too harshly.

Yes, you’re quite right.

Ana pulled off the windbreaker and handed it back to Pars.

Your turn, she said.

I’m okay.

Ana clutched her arms around her ribs.

I’m going back to the bus, she announced.

Yes, Pars agreed, teeth chattering. It is a bit chilly.

Claartija pushed her bangs behind her ears and gave them a small nod good-bye.

On the way back to the bus, Mrs. McIntyre stopped them. She was searching for the Chinese lady; her husband apparently had lost her in the crowd.

Ana scanned the rocks. Pars did too. No, they said, they hadn’t seen her.

Well, she must be here somewhere, Mrs. McIntyre said brightly and squeezed both their arms; then she told them the ceremony under the tent was about to begin. Ana had taken an unfair dislike to the woman at the airport. She couldn’t say why. Perhaps it was the tin of Altoids she kept offering Ana. She’d wondered: was her breath really that bad?

Back at the minibus, the driver let them in and shut the door. The carriage was warm, the heat blowing in vents. The Bulgarian in the overcoat sat in the backseat where they’d left him, staring out the window at the sea. Beside him slouched the man in mirrored sunglasses who’d escorted him the day before. Ana was about to sit when she marched down the aisle. She didn’t know who to ask: the Bulgarian or his escort. She decided to address the Bulgarian himself.

Do you want to come outside for a minute? she asked. I can take you.

The man didn’t move. He stared out the window into the near distance. The escort thanked her and said it was okay, that Mr. Raskolov preferred to stay inside the bus. She glanced at the large man in the overcoat again. He had a boxer’s nose, tight black curls in a horseshoe shape around an otherwise bald head. There was a cloud of condensation on the glass where his mouth had been. His forehead was lightly glazed with perspiration.

Well, Ana said. If he wants to go, I’d be happy to take him. My husband was—Ana made a vague gesture with her left hand.

The Bulgarian turned from the window and met her eyes for just a second, then looked away.

Thank you, madam, the escort said. Mr. Raskolov I’m sure appreciates it.

Ana shrugged, trudged back up the aisle, and collapsed in her seat.