At times such as these, I tend to retreat into myself and drift. A mistake. And before I know it, Eugene is standing beside me, his hat pulled down over his eyes, as though he’s worried someone might recognize him.

How’s my favourite loser? he says.

Kitty doesn’t waste any time joining in. Do you know how many tourists are killed each year in Prague?

Killed? says Didi.

We should have stayed home, says Desi.

Bring it on, says Chip.

You got nothing to worry about, Eugene tells me. One look at you, and the crooks won’t bother to waste their time.

Mimi turns and holds up two bags. “Which one do you like?”

It takes me a moment to recover. “You want a purse?”

“Not for me,” says Mimi. “For you.”

“I don’t want a purse.”

“It’s not a purse. It’s a messenger bag.”

“I don’t need a messenger bag.”

You don’t deserve a messenger bag, whispers Eugene.

The vendor is a short, fat man with a thicket of a moustache and dark, curly hair. “Feel the leather, sir,” he says. “Feel how soft it is.”

I look at my watch. “It’s almost time,” I say. “We can come back after we see what the clock does.”

“The clock is every day here,” says the vendor. “But soon this bag is gone.”

Eugene throws a hand over my shoulder as we head back. You don’t even deserve to be alive.

A substantial crowd has gathered in front of the clock. Everyone has their cellphones and their tablets out at the ready. I check the crowd for pickpockets. Now would be the time for them to move in.

I try to imagine that I’m a thief. What would I look for? The open purse hanging off the shoulder of the woman in the blue pantsuit? The bright foil shopping bag the teenager has set on a stone abutment while she sends a text to a friend? The wallet sticking out of the back pocket of the old man in the Bermuda shorts and the canvas hat? The young man in a wheelchair with the day pack hooked over the push handles?

Mimi takes my hand and leads me through the crowd. “We can see better from back here,” she says.

“Don’t think there’ll be much to see.”

“You ready with the camera?” says Mimi.

We stand there in Old Town Square and wait. The hour comes and goes. At one point, there is a shout and something on the clock moves, but it’s nothing more than a mechanical twitch, a fidget, as though the mechanism is trying to wake up from a bad dream. The Apostles don’t make an appearance. The rooster doesn’t crow.

“Well,” says Mimi, “that wasn’t as exciting as it might have been, but just seeing the clock was worth the walk.”