That was the point where, to Rat’s mind, a person gets interesting. A lot of the people she likes best in the world everyone else has given up on. So she wasn’t surprised when Jérôme said he’d bumped into Florian, who was living over in Bompas with his granny, and said to stop by anytime. Or that Jérôme, who, like her, has a soft spot for so-called losers, chose to take it as an invitation not to come buy dope, but actually to chill with the guy, ask him if he wanted to go to the movies, get a kebab.

Rat takes a curious look around Florian’s place. It’s nice. There’s a breakfront cabinet full of china collectibles. A clock on the wall with a picture of a waterfall, labeled “Souvenirs from the Cevennes.” Crocheted doilies on the tabletop, potted plants in the kitchen window.

Florian is sitting in his tracksuit bottoms. On the table, a heap of plastic bags, a razor blade, a kitchen scale. He is weighing little lumps of hash, separating them and bagging them.

“I’ll be finished in a minute. Check out my new Tony Hawk.”

On a big-screen console is a skateboard game.

“Wanna play, Rat?”

Jérôme and Rat each choose a skater, name him, coiff him, outfit him. Jérôme propels his man into fantastical triple ollies up the walls of an empty shopping plaza. Rat, soon bored, allows her suicide skater to crash through the picture windows of the school cafeteria. She can’t help it, she’s really only interested in the part where you choose whether your hero has an Afro or dreads, camouflage cutoffs or baggies.

“I’m finished,” says Florian. He disappears with the goods and returns. “Shall we bring some food?”

He opens the refrigerator, extracts a dish covered in plastic wrap.

“Take this,” he orders Jérôme.

“What is it?”

“Swiss-chard-and-ham casserole.”

Jérôme makes a face.

“It’s delicious,” Florian assures him. “First-rate.”

“Are you sure it’s okay to take it?”

“It’s for me,” he says. “My granny cooks me meals the night before, to heat up for lunch.”

“It’s not going to heat up so well over a campfire,” warns Jérôme, but Rat can tell Florian’s bent on bringing his granny’s casserole.

“Did you tell her it was my birthday?” she teases, hopeful. “See, Flo, us poor suckers don’t have grannies who bake.”

“Get lost,” says Florian. “You scum, you aren’t worthy to eat the crumbs off her—”

He shoves Jérôme, who’s sticking his nose back into the refrigerator hungrily.

“Here.”

He throws a pack of cookies at him.

“Store-bought,” Jérôme sniffs.

“I haven’t brought anything,” says Rat, guilty.