Eugene picks up a sign with a picture of a middle-aged man. There’s a red circle around his head and a red slash across his face. Eugene rattles it in my face. Friend of yours?

The twins pick up little flags on sticks and wave them around as they skip along behind me.

Kitty keeps both eyes open for trouble.

Chip kicks at the trash in the street.

Oz’s handkerchief is brown and crusty, and each time I press it against my nose, it hurts. I don’t mind the blood on my shirt. It’s a badge of the moment. And as I make my way through the dregs of the protest, people step aside out of respect for the hero, bloodied but unbowed.

Hero, my ass, says Eugene. You just forgot to duck.

White panel trucks, says Kitty. Keep watching for white panel trucks.

We walk down the street single file, me in the lead, Eugene right behind, Chip and the twins with their flags, Kitty bringing up the rear. I don’t spend much time window shopping. It’s late afternoon now, and I want to get back to the hotel.

How about the Sex Machines Museum? Eugene shouts at me. Still time to see the big dildo.

We breeze through Old Town Square. There’s a crowd in front of the clock, and for all I know, it could be the same crowd as earlier in the day or from the day before, waiting patiently for the Apostles to make an appearance.

Or for the rooster to get off its ass.

I don’t slow down to see whether or not the clock has been fixed. Frankly, I don’t care.

Mimi is waiting for me when I get back to the room. She’s sitting in the chair, her feet on the windowsill. Her sketch pad is open on the bed, which is her way of telling me that I am to look at the images.

“Good day?” I ask.

“See for yourself,” she says without changing position.

The sketches are all of water patterns around the abutments of the Charles Bridge. One is a close-up detail of a plastic water bottle floating in the current.

“These are great.”

Mimi pulls her feet off the sill and comes out of the chair.

“My god, Bird,” she says as soon as she sees me, “what happened to you?”

I try to look as injured as I can.

“Are you all right?”

There are people who don’t like to be coddled. Luckily for Mimi, I’m not one of them.

“What?”

“Your nose. Is that blood on your shirt?”

“Oh, that.”

“Did you get into a fight?”

“Not exactly.” I want to tell her about the protest and about meeting Oz, but I don’t see where there is any rush.

“Come here, you silly puppy,” says Mimi in her soft, motherly voice that I like so much. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”