It is late afternoon before they reach the causeway that runs between the sea and the lagoon of Saint-Cyprien. It’s a good place to hitch a lift, because there’s parking on either side of the road, where people stop to look at the flamingos, or to walk on the beach.

Rat and Morgan get a ride from a vanload of windsurfers from Banyuls, who deposit them at the turnoff for Collioure.

The road down to Collioure is steep, and there’s no room for pedestrians. On the far side of the crash barrier is a gulley too slant-sided to walk in. Rat decides they are better off taking a shortcut down through the terraced vineyards. But as soon as they get off the asphalt road, they find themselves sliding down the scree of a hillside steep as cliff. Rat had imagined there must be some kind of path, but although it is possible to proceed horizontally across each terrace of vines, there appears to be no vertical descent except an irrigation drain.

In the end, she takes Morgan’s knapsack as well as her own, and they slide down, half on their heels, half on their bottoms, from terrace to terrace.

Collioure is still miles below.

In the end, Rat gives up, and they scramble back up to the road.

Rat was a little girl last time her mother took her to see Mémé Catherine. Back then, she had no need to pay attention to directions. She can remember the name of the condo complex in which her granny lived, and that it was somewhere in the upper town, but once they get to what seems like the right elevation, she can’t find it. All the turnings they take lead to dead ends backing onto ravines, so that they are continually obliged to retrace their steps.

Morgan says nothing, but his face is drained of color.

It’s Sunday evening, and darkness is falling.

A town can be unfriendlier at night than the countryside. Every human enclosure seems to exclude the wayfarers. There isn’t a single bar or café open, and all the shutters of people’s houses are closed so tight you can’t tell if there’s a light on inside.

Rat is chilled to the bone, and infinitely weary, which means Morgan must be feeling even worse. She tries not to let herself think of the Cabreras’ house, where at this moment, Marielle will be cooking supper, Solenne probably playing with her Barbies in the bath. A hot bath. And Jérôme? Knowing Jérôme, he’s probably worrying about them.

“How’s your scrape, Morgan?”

“It’s okay.”

“Are you cold? It gets cold once the sun goes behind the cliffs. Let’s change you into your long trousers.”

“Here? In public?”