Things like superstition. Things like déjà vu.
We’re both acutely aware that the last time we made plans to visit a church, those plans—literally—blew up.
First thing in the morning, Naz and I take a train to Lisbon. At the station, we meet an unsmiling young man in a black leather coat over a hoodie who has a smattering of acne on his chin and small, darting eyes. He pushes off the column on the platform where he’s been idling, scanning the crowd, hands Naz an envelope in a casual pass that looks as if they simply brushed by one another, and lopes away without ever speaking a word.
“Friend of yours?” I ask, watching him melt into the crowd of morning commuters.
“Never saw him before.”
“How did he know who to look for?”
He sends me a conspiratorial wink, taking my arm and leading me
