The next morning, there were loads of extra people on the metro. At first, it seemed like we were going to have an easy day – lots of marks to choose from – but then I realized that the people were all local, or almost local: Catalan families streaming in from around the region for a protest. They all had red-and-yellow striped flags with a blue triangle on one end. Their picket signs tangled at the exits, and their voices joined in a chant I could feel buzzing through me: “InDUH- inDUH-inDUHpendència!”
I caught Manu’s eye, then pushed through the crowd toward him. “What’s going on?” I asked.
He shrugged. “A manifestación at Plaça Catalunya. They have them all the time.”
“Do you want to get off the train? Maybe try out Yaya’s plan?” We’d practised several times at the beach that morning
