A moment later Morgan’s pestering her to buy him a Happy Meal, and Rat begins to say no and then relents. She buys herself a burger and fries, too. Wolfs the food down too fast and feels like throwing up. On Morgan’s face, by contrast, is an expression of divine contentment. He’s extracted from its plastic packaging the miniature skateboard that came with his Happy Meal, and he’s spinning it across the floor of the food court. A little English boy comes to watch. Rat checks out his parents as potential smugglers. More fat hot blond red-faced people in spandex. Not likely.

After lunch, Rat puts a new Band-Aid on Morgan’s heel and they hike back to the ferry. For a long time, they sit on a manicured grassy bank and watch the cars going through Immigration. Watch the uniformed man in the pill-box checking people’s passports, waving them through. Nobody gets stopped, nobody gets searched. It’s a cinch. If only Rat can find some suitable adults willing to smuggle them onto the ferry, they’ll be home free.

“Where are we going to sleep tonight?” Morgan asks. He’s lost his burst of fast-food energy, and his nose is running. His eyes look gluey, as if he’s coming down with a cold.

She considers. “I guess we’d better go back to the campsite, figure out what we’re going to do in the morning.”

But the thought of hauling their packs and sleeping bags all the way back up that hill is more than she can face. Normandy’s colder and wetter than the Pyrénées-Orientales. Last thing Morgan needs is another night sleeping in the damp. No wonder he’s getting sick.

Rat can smell her own sweat. It’s hot in the sun, and she’s been wearing the same clothes for three days, but it’s a sweat that reeks of fear, not heat. That damn lady with the chocolate nails has really psyched her out.

“Let’s go back to the mall. We’ll get some food for tonight, and we can have a wash.”

The food in the supermarket is crappy and overpriced and not really intended to provide anybody with a square meal, but they end up with salami baguettes, a bag of potato chips, a jumbo pack of Twix, and a liter of Orangina. Salt and sugar. Grease. Chemicals.

“Come on.” Rat jerks her head towards the ladies’ room.

“What?” Morgan stands stock-still.

“We both need a wash. You’re filthy.”

“I’m not coming into the girls’ bathroom with you.”

“Yes, you are.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.” His mouth is set. He has gone stubborn, immovable on her. He’s gone into Mediterranean macho mode, a position against which Rat has little leverage.