A breeze slides along my bare skin and momentarily clears the air. Then the cigarette smoke snaking from the trio of fourteen-year-olds beside me resumes permeating my T-shirt, my hair, my shorts, my skin. Barf. An aggressive red palm has been preventing me from entering the crosswalk for, I swear, five minutes—all the more frustrating when I’ve finally found my embassy liaison. Watching him across the street as he runs his hand through thick blond hair makes me feel like a voyeur. In a burst of paranoia, I glance around to see whether someone is watching me.

The café Jean-Luc suggested would stand out anywhere else. But, situated next to the Sorbonne, Café des Étudiants was only one of a dozen with a “colorful canopy and chairs and tables out front. You can’t miss it.” Seems I strive to prove people wrong wherever I go, because I looped the block twice.

As I finally make it across the street and sit down in a steel bistro chair, Jean-Luc finishes an espresso. In his green skinny jeans and purple T-shirt, he looks strikingly casual for a workday.

“Mademoiselle, bonjour.” A portly man with dusky skin and more hair on his jaw than his head greets me with an uninterested smile. “Vous désirez?”

I point to Jean-Luc’s tiny cup, then spread my hands. “Like that but bigger, please.”

“Un café allongé, s’il vous plaît,” Jean-Luc translates with a crooked grin that reaches his ears. The waiter returns with my coffee, and we both lean in over our drinks. The familiar scent of roasted beans is a small comfort in an otherwise foreign environment; I allow myself a moment to breathe deep with eyes closed, let the clicking of heels along the sidewalk and the acceleration of car engines in the street fully swell in my ears. An infant cries somewhere around the corner. When I look up, Jean-Luc is staring at me.

“Miss Darby. What can I do for you?”

“Shayna.” He’s four, maybe five years older than me. I place my cup on the table and smooth back a flyaway hair. “And I’m in need of a guide around the city through this Sunday. I’m not sure what your week is like, but I can ask someone else at the embassy if you’re busy.”

Jean-Luc’s dark caterpillar eyebrows lift. He rests knobby elbows on the table. “Sunday? I thought you were leaving tonight.”

“No one knows the circumstances of my sister’s death, and I have to learn more. I need help retracing her steps. I’m happy to pay you.”