“Just give me time to get out of here, Jérôme. I mean, this place is paradise, we’ve been having a fine time, hanging out with the Paulines—these guys are superintellectuals, they’ve got some ideas that would blow your mind. But, like, today was the first time me ’n’ Morgan have been beyond the gates since we got here. We went to the market at Banyuls and the whole time, I’m nervous as a cat someone we know’s gonna spot us. Any day now someone’s going to notice our campfires, and the police will come. I’m getting real itchy to get out of the Pyrénées-Orientales, head up to England. No news from my father?” She knows the answer already.

“None.”

“He still hasn’t answered my e-mail?”

“No.”

“Fuck,” she says, and ponders. “What should I do, should I send another one?”

“Yeah, maybe you’d better.”

“I’ll tell you what to write, and you can send it. Maybe the address wasn’t any good. Maybe we should send one to that gallery place that sells his stuff, too.”

Jérôme is still looking worried. “And if you don’t hear back, what are you going to do?”

“I’m going to go to London anyway. Go to his gallery and find him.”

“You can’t go to England if you have no money and nowhere to stay. You want to end up sleeping in the street, Rat? London’s the most expensive city in the world.”

That’s Jérôme for you, cautious. Small wonder he’s planning to be an accountant when he grows up.

“We’ll be fine. It’s just a question of how we get there.”

Over lunch, they discuss strategies with the Paulines.

Florian thinks the ferry idea is bogus.

“Why complicate things? Why don’t we just put ’em on a plane?”

He pulls out his cell phone, wanders down to the beach where the reception’s clearest, comes back a few minutes later, looking triumphant. “There’s a Ryanair flight from Perpignan at eight tonight, with plenty of seats available.”

“Did you book them? Did they ask you who was traveling?” asks Dany.

“Nah. I don’t think it’ll be a problem. These airlines are so busy running each other outta business, they don’t care if you’re Osama bin Laden. You want to go for it, Rat?”

“I don’t think we can afford a plane, just now. I think we’re better off hitching. Did you ask how much it costs?”

Florian winks at her. “I already promised you a trip to England, didn’t I? You can pay me back once you’re reunited with your millionaire daddy.”

Rat’s not proud. In her view, money is—or should be—a collective amenity. Whoever’s got it, pays. She reaches over and squeezes Florian’s hand. “Thanks.”

“You want to go for it, Rat?”