There are people who know how to lose their temper strategically, but Florian isn’t one of them. Browbeating this poor girl isn’t going to get them anywhere.

Outside, Rat and Florian take a seat under a palm tree, near a group of Scandinavian backpackers who are sprawled in the grass, drinking beer. The sun is still high in the sky. The young men are shirtless; their fleshy shoulders and hairless chests are already sunburnt scarlet. Come Easter, the whole of northern Europe comes swarming as if by biological compulsion down to the Mediterranean. Only countercyclical Rat is fighting her way up to the cold foggy north.

Florian is still fuming. “What a swindle,” he complains. “Fucking France, fucking bureaucracy. I bet in other countries a kid’s got a right to take a vacation.”

“We’re not taking a vacation; we’re running away,” Rat points out.

Florian looks at her, annoyed. “Running away, vacation, what’s the difference? It’s a question of individual freedom.”

“You sound like Pauline.”

“Who’s Pauline?”

“The girl at the dynamite factory. That’s what they believe in, freedom.”

“Don’t you?”

Rat looks around. “Where’s Morgan gone?”

They go back into the airport, where they find Morgan trying, with a plastic dummy, to coax a Twix from the candy machine. Morgan’s generally pretty law-abiding, but he’s missed his afternoon snack and it’s almost dinnertime. Not so long ago, he would have come told Rat he was hungry: his sojourn at the dynamite factory has made him more autonomous.

“Here, kid,” says Florian, handing him a handful of coins. “Buy yourself a drink, too. Want something, Rat?”

“What are we going to do now?” Morgan asks Rat.

Florian sighs. “So those guys say the Channel ferry’s a better bet?”

“That’s one idea.” Rat’s optimism has taken a beating. She too had been sure all they needed was Florian’s credit card and they would be up and away. Thirty thousand feet above the Massif Central by now. “It’s all a gamble, I guess.”

“Well, I tell you what. Why don’t you guys stay at my place tonight, and we’ll figure out what to do from here.” He looks at the airport clock. “Shit. I have to drop something off at Bas Vernet. You can wait in the car; I won’t be long.”

He takes out his phone. “Granny? How’s it going? I’m bringing two friends home for the night. Do we need anything for dinner? Sure? Gros bises.” He makes a kissing noise into the phone, and Rat and Morgan avoid each other’s eyes so as not to laugh.

Superhighway, three lanes in each direction.

Mountainous pine forest on either side.

On the sound system, “Clandestino.”