The summer nights made these escapades easier. The first time, she was scared that someone might mug her so she chose a bench downtown. It was a Saturday; she was surrounded by people walking from one bar to the next. Two girls approached her to ask if she was all right. With so much noise, it was 4 a.m. before she managed to fall into a light sleep: not deep enough to determine if her dream was or wasn’t her own. Four days later she left the hotel quietly and again stayed downtown. Although there weren’t as many partiers, she didn’t choose either the main street or the square, but opted instead for the Ensanche area, stretching out on a stone bench by a planter. Before settling in for the night, she took a quick look inside the pub across the street; there were couples and single men, most likely alcoholics. A potpourri of 90s Spanish music issued from the premises: bland, tense, cracked sounds. That night she dreamed of a water trough in which she submerged her recently shaved legs. The redness of the pores and a deep-seated warmth cooled in waves, and something critical resolved itself. She woke just before the alarm on her phone sounded and cheerfully got up from the bench, a piece of bird shit on her cardigan. Her feet were frozen; the below zero night still hovered in the air. But by nine that morning, when she was replenishing the trays of ham and cheese, she was in a sweat. The sun was beating down on the bare sidewall of the building and the air conditioner had broken down.