Casey hugs her knees, staring blankly at the window.  The people of Paris flow by, a fascinating entourage in a beautiful city, but they are completely ignored by this girl.  She thinks of her companions sleeping in their light-proof inner room.  She rubs her eyes, smudging her eyeliner; salt tears sting the fresh cuts on the heels of her hands.  She sniffles as she stands, shrugging into a black denim jacket.  She slowly buttons the jacket, strolling somewhat shakily to the door.

   Casey smokes an unfiltered clove cigarette as she half-lurches along the street, in the first shimmering of sunlight.  Her destination is a small cafe near a certain cemetary.  Once there, she perches herself rather precariously on a stool, next to a young man with clear blue eyes and black hair.  She clings to her stool and stubs her cigarette out in a small plastic ashtray.  She shoves a note for too many euro at the man behind the counter.  "Dol...  no.  No, no, that's not--that...  doux nourriture.  Yes?  Sweet.  It doesn't...  matter...  and orange juice?  Hell..."
   "Jus d'orange," the young man says.  He causes the somewhat bewildered cafe man to understand that the young lady wants something sweet, and some orange juice.
   Casey hugs herself.  "Thank you."  She looks at the young man.  "You speak English."
   "I do.  And French.  And Hebrew."  The young man sips his coffee.  "You gave him twenty dollars.  Which is funny, because the US dollar is the same as the Euro.  Unless you're Canadian."
   "I'm not Canadian, and I don't care what I gave him...  I just need...  sweet..."
   "Sounds like it.  Why?"
   "Low...  blood."  Casey giggles slightly.
   "Sounds like you should eat more often."
   "I had a huge meal three hours ago."  Casey ravenously tears at the iced bun that has been placed in front of her.  "Where you from?"
   "North Dakota.  You?"
   "Maryland.  What're you doing here?"
   "Having breakfast."
   "No no no," Casey waves a now sticky hand.  She pauses to gulp some orange juice  "Not *here,* here."
   "Teaching English at a highschool and doing research for a novel.  What are you doing not here, here?"
   Casey looks at him suspiciously.  "Can you keep a secret?"
   The young man's mind makes a quick decision: he can use his sick days at the school for novel research, and novel research is anything, including talking to young women.  He nods.  "Sure."
   "Then tell the man to pack me a lot of food and some wine, then walk with me."

   Nick, as the young man's name turns out to be, walks next to Casey as she leads him through Cimetiere du Pere Lachaise.  She is still eating, but seems much less shaky than when first they met.
   "I am here because this is my...  mentor's favourite city, and another of his proteges needed to get out of Los Angeles."
   "Why?"
   "I don't think I should say.  I don't think he'd like it.  Anyway.  We're here, and I don't know how long we're staying, and, um, I think we should sit down and have some wine so I can tell you the rest."