The girl points to a cherry. Jamie picks it up with the tongs, but before the girl can take it, he flips it up into the air and catches it behind his back with the tongs again. Her face, which has gone from outraged to baffled, now lights up with delight. Even her mother smiles as Jamie drops the cherry into the girl’s damp-looking palm.

Before moving on to a bunch of knee-biters at the next table, I can’t help noticing that the Syrian group’s basket is filled with bread heels, too. Somehow, it makes me feel better that we aren’t the only ones who receive poor treatment, but also worse that something as mundane as a bread heel can have so much power.

A few turn their noses up at our fruits, and I feel snubbed all over again. But all the children, and some adults, too, gladly take what we offer. I hope goodwill is like bay leaves, where just a few are enough to flavor a whole pot of stew.

We breeze by the bottom cutters without offering them any. After Jamie flipped them off, it just doesn’t seem sincere.

Once all our plates are licked clean, Jamie returns to the cargo hold to practice, while Bo and I hike to one of the enameled doors off Scotland Road marked “Emergency Only” that leads into the first-class area on E-Deck. I doubt needing a haircut qualifies as an emergency, but I can hardly beg off now.

“I’ll give you a two-minute lead,” I tell Bo briskly. “We’ll be less noticeable if we travel separately.”

Bo, watching a moth buzz around a light fixture, nods. When Scotland Road clears of people, he ducks through the door.

I hold my breath, not sure if I’m more worried that the door will open again and he’ll be tossed out, or that it won’t and I’ll have to go through with this bloody haircut after all. But when nothing happens after two minutes of pacing, I follow.

I try to walk as naturally as possible through the well-lit corridor. Jamie was right. The halls are empty.

Finding the barbershop, I slip inside and shut the door behind me. The bracing scent of musk and pine fills my nose. I feign an air of indifference, though my pulse clamors in my neck.

Bo leans against one of two patent-leather swivel chairs, his arms crossed, gazing up at an assortment of souvenirs hanging from the ceiling: pennants with the White Star logo, dolls, caps, toy boats. Against the wall, a display cabinet holds wallets, cups, and playing cards, tuppence a deck.

“Olly needs a new deck. And Wink could use one of those.” I tap my finger at a bright orange kerchief, also tuppence.