Ralf tapped his fingers on the leather steering wheel. The latex operating gloves had felt unfamiliar and uncomfortable when he put them on this morning in the Netherlands. He had grown used to them by now—just like the brand-new coveralls and work boots that he was wearing, and the disposable cap covering his hair. Not that you could see it—he was wearing a new knitted beanie on top, pulled down firmly over his ears.

He looked like an employee at a garage delivering a car, or somebody who had borrowed his boss’s Mercedes. That was the exact intention. He had had to get out only once to refuel, but there were often cameras in places like that.

Invisible speakers were playing “Dear Mama,” Tupac’s ode to his mother. He hadn’t listened to this song in a long time. The slow tempo suited the landscape and the thoughts running through his mind—memories and resolutions—while the music and the lyrics fed emotions that he couldn’t quite put into words. Tupac’s mother had outlived her son, he realized. All she had left was his music.

Ralf pushed up his sunglasses. Outside it was hot, but the climate control kept the temperature inside the car perfectly comfortable. Next to him, on the beige leather seat, lay a Montblanc laptop bag that didn’t belong to him. It contained items that weren’t his either: an iPhone, a MacBook, a passport, a wallet full of cash, bank cards, and a gleaming golden credit card. He had used the latter item to pay the toll—more than one hundred euros. The receipts were tucked underneath the sun visor.

Ahead of him stood a signpost announcing a village. The name was long and full of abbreviations. He couldn’t pronounce it, but that didn’t matter. The GPS would take him where he needed to go. Just before he reached the sleepy French hamlet, he turned off the main road and followed a narrower lane that took him deeper into the countryside. Forested plots, empty meadows. Not a house to be seen. Crows hopped across the stubble-covered fields, and hawks swooped high above them in the azure-blue sky.

Ralf slowed down. Following the instructions from the GPS, he steered the Mercedes onto a forest trail. It was bumpy and poorly maintained, exactly as Helen had described.

Just a few minutes later, he emerged onto a clearing. There was a small house with a pointed roof and a wooden shed next to it. A small round yard covered with dusty gravel.

Ralf got out and looked around. Listened. No noise from a nearby highway; no voices or music. Only birdsong. Earthy odors: soil, vegetation, decay. An animal smell too. A shudder ran through him. Who would want to live in such a remote place? He would go crazy after just one day here.