Morgan had settled down to sleep in the tent. Rat and Florian were sharing a companionable joint before bed. When suddenly Florian inhaled, leaned over, and blew a big puff of hash fume into Rat’s open mouth.

“Did you like that?” he asked.

Rat was doing her best not to choke or pass out, but Florian, taking her silence as assent, followed it up with a kiss. Stuck his tongue in her mouth, before she knew what he was doing.

Rat was so surprised she bit him.

“That was supposed to feel nice!” the boy complained, laughing and cursing at the same time.

“Sorry, I just don’t …”

“Don’t what?”

“I don’t do that stuff.”

“Have you tried?”

She shrugged. “A bit.”

“Maybe it was the wrong guy.”

He approached her again, gently, stroking her hair, kissing her lightly on the lips, but she pushed him off.

Afterwards, she felt bad, hoping he didn’t think it was because he was such an ugly little squirt, or because she believed the stories about his being HIV.

Maybe Vanessa was right. Maybe she was gay. Maybe she was waiting to sleep with Pauline.

Next day, they’re following signs to Orléans, when Florian’s cell phone rings.

Florian checks the number. Florian’s way too paranoid to take a call from an unidentified number.

“Jérôme,” he says, and passes it to Rat.

Rat takes the phone. “Hey, dog-killer, how’s it going?”

“So Morgan told you, huh?”

“I have to say, I don’t approve.”

“I didn’t think you would. Where are you?”

“We’re—I don’t know. Somewhere south of Paris. Where are we, Florian?”

“There’s an e-mail from your father,” says Jérôme’s voice.

Rat feels the prickles spread all over her body. She can hardly breathe, let alone speak.

“When’d it come?”

“Late last night. I just picked it up now.”

“What’s it say?”

“Do you want me to open it?”

“Yes. The reception’s not very good.”

“Can you hear me better now?”

“Wait …” Her chest feels like lead. “Tell me first. Is it good news or bad?”

A pause. Then, “Good. Definitely good.” Jérôme clears his throat. “Ready?”

“Ready.”

“Okay. Here goes. Can you hear me?”

“Yeah. Read it.”

“‘Hello Celia,’” Jérôme reads. “‘I would be pleased to meet you whenever you come to England. My telephone number is such-and-such. Looking forward to meeting you. Cordially, Gillem.’”

When he’s finished, she asks him to read it again. She scrambles for the Magic Marker that came with the Mickey Mouse comic she bought Morgan at the last service station, and scribbles the number on her hand.

“Do you want to answer?”

“Yeah, tell him thanks and that I’m on my way—should be in London in the next few days.”