Shadows of the city center

I had spent the entire night prowling the shadows of the city center, talking to the unhoused, the forgotten, and the desperate. Every time a jagged voice offered a scrap of information—no matter how useless it seemed—I reached into my pocket and paid them in crumpled euros. My hands were stained with the city and the euros, and my mind was heavy. I’d spoken to so many of the unhoused that I’d almost lost my voice.

"I’m looking for Mazzarella," I snapped, the exhaustion finally starting to grate on my nerves as I asked the last unhoused person I saw. "Just tell me if you've seen his relatives or know where he’s being held."

"You're looking for a ghost, signorina. No one here has seen him or his family in a while,” one old man had wheezed as he tucked a twenty-euro note into his rags. “Thanks for the money.”

Despite the all-nighter and the large fortune I’d handed out, I wasn't a single step closer to finding where Rob was being held. The trail was ice-cold. The neon lights of the historic center flickered and died as dawn threatened the horizon. As the first grey streaks of sunlight began to bleed into the sky, illuminating the ancient cobblestones, I decided to give up for the morning and head back to my apartment.

I was halfway back toward the outskirts, my boots echoing hollowly against the stone and gravel, when a voice sliced through the morning mist.

"Marie!"

I froze. Not just any name. My real name. In this world of aliases and shadows, it was a sound that made my heart skip. I spun around, hand instinctively hovering near my IDs, only to find a familiar, rugged face watching me.

It was Charlie. He was one of my best friends here in Italy—the only person who truly knew the woman behind the mission.

"You look like hell," he said softly, walking toward me.

"I've been working," I replied, a tired smile finally breaking through. I looked at him, feeling the sudden, sharp ache of loneliness. "Come back to my apartment with me."

Charlie didn’t hesitate. He simply nodded, falling into step beside me as we navigated the long trek away from the heart of the city. We walked in a companionable silence, the kind only earned through years of shared secrets and close calls. The city was beginning to groan back to life behind us; the scent of espressos faded, replaced by the industrial, damp smell of the Roman outskirts.

My apartment was tucked away in a building that seemed to lean against its neighbors for support, a third-floor walk-up with a heavy wooden door that groaned on its hinges. As I fumbled with the iron key, my hands shook—just a fraction—but enough for Charlie to notice. He didn’t reach out to take the keys from me; he knew better than to bruise my pride. He just stood there, a steady, silent anchor in the fading grey light.

Inside, the air was cool and smelled of the lemon oil I used to keep the dust at bay. I didn't turn on the lights, letting the dim morning seep through the thin curtains. I dropped my jacket on the sofa, the weight of the night finally, fully settling into my bones.

“How did you know where I was?” I asked Charlie.

“A few of the unhoused called Rob’s family to let them know someone that they didn’t recognize was looking for him,” he said. “It didn’t take too much digging for me to find that it was you looking for him.”

I looked at him before I asked.

“Do you know where he is?” 

Charlie walked over to the small kitchen, put the teapot under the tap, filled it up and started the burner then placed the teapot on the burner. The blue flame hissed to life, a small, violent spark in the dim room.

"I do know but you need to promise me that you’ll stop doing this covert work. When it comes to you doing it professionally, you’re amazing and no one can figure out who’s who but now that it’s personal, you’re off your game."

I closed my eyes and sighed. The kettle whistled as Charlie was digging around for tea bags….the noise was bothersome so I got up and took the kettle off the stove and turned the burner off.

“I promise,” I sighed.

“Do you really promise, amica?” Charlie asked.

“Yeah,” I said.

The Camorra connection explained

Robert Mazarella was allegedly involved in aggravated homicide, is allegedly the head of the “Mazarella Clan” and allegedly on the run prior to his arrest – which took place in April 2025. That is the story the authorities in Rome have pieced together, the one they will tell the judges and the press. It’s a clean narrative, easy for the public to swallow.

The truth is much quieter. I sat in my apartment, looking out over the Roman skyline as the sun dipped behind the ancient domes, thinking about how easily people are fooled by a loud voice and a heavy hand.

I’ve known Rob since I was seven years old and he was far from the mastermind of the Camorra family. We grew up in the shadow of the same stone walls, but while he was busy proving he could throw the hardest punch, I was learning how to count the money. He was the muscles; I was the brain. He was always the one craving the spotlight, the one who wanted his name whispered in the cafes along the Via Veneto.

I remember the night I sat him down to explain how the world was going to work. We were in the kitchen of his apartment, the city lights flickering like dying embers outside and not even twenty years old. The air smelled of expensive espresso and the damp scent of a Roman evening.

"They're looking for a leader, Rob," I had told him, sliding a glass of whiskey toward him. I watched the way his eyes lit up at the word 'leader.'

"And they'll find one," he said, always eager for the spotlight. "I'm ready. I’ve earned it."

I looked at him, seeing the boy who used to hide behind my father’s garden gates whenever the sirens got too close. In reality, the head of the Camorra family was me but because the Italian mafia wouldn’t let a woman be in charge, we needed a puppet who enjoyed the strings.

"It’s not about being ready for the glory," I said, my voice dropping. "It’s about being ready for the cage. If a name gets shouted in court, it won't be mine."

He paused, the glass halfway to his lips, a flicker of something crossing his face before his vanity smothered it. "You're the one with the ideas. You're the one who they’ll fear."

"They fear what they can see, and they won't see me." My father’s name is a ghost that follows me through these streets, but the old men in the dark rooms—the ones who make the rules—they won’t bow to a woman. They need a chin they can look at. They need a target. Due to my bloodline that I was aware of at such a young age, I couldn’t risk being the head of a crime family.  "They need you, Rob."

I watched him weigh the cost against the vanity. I knew which one would win. It always did with him. I elected Rob to be the one on paper to be the head of the family.

"Sign the ledgers, Rob," I commanded, pushing the documents across the marble counter. "Take the meetings. Wear the suits. I’ll do the rest."

"And if things go south?" he asked, his voice cracking just slightly.

"Then you play the part you were born for," I replied. “I’ll always get you out of prison. I don’t how I’ll do it but I will.”

He nodded his head in appreciation

Now, reflecting on his arrest in the quiet of my home, the plan has reached its natural conclusion. In the eyes of Rome, he is the monster. To me, he is just a childhood memory that served its purpose. It’s now time to get him out of prison. I couldn’t play the lives that I’d been living; Deppgirl Smith, Laura Beck, Maria Rizzoli and all the others I’ve had over the years. It was time that Italy and the rest of the world knew who I am….Marie Alexandrovna Romanov. It was political suicide and I knew it. My Romanov relatives will either accept me or disown me but I will be fine either way…I had my ways of going into hiding. If this plan failed, I would go so deep into hiding, even Sera couldn’t find me.

I picked up my phone and texted her.

“Sera, I am going to get Rob out of prison but I am going as Marie Romanov. I’m hoping it goes well but if it goes poorly, you won’t be able to find me for years to come. Let Bob know what’s going on and let him know that I love him – I’ll get to him when I’m safe. I’ve loved you the moment we met for the first time, Sera, and I haven’t stopped.”

I turned my phone off, got dressed and went to the alleys where the homeless lived and spent their days. I knew that this was the best way I could get information on where Rob was being imprisoned.

The Camorra Connection

The sun had already begun its languid descent behind the terracotta rooftops of Rome by the time I finally dragged myself awake. I had slept for the better part of the day—a heavy, dreamless slumber that left me feeling more leaden than rested. As I sat up, the sheets felt damp against my skin. Even with the shutters drawn tight, the Roman heat had permeated the room, and I remained coated in a fine sheen of sweat—a visceral reminder of last night and the excesses that had likely seeped out of my pores while I was dead to the world.

"Enough of that," I muttered to the empty, high-ceilinged room.

I shuffled to the bathroom and took another shower, letting the water run as cold as I could endure. The chill helped snap the lingering fog from my brain. I moved through the motions of a second morning with a clinical sort of slowness. I dried off thoroughly, the towel feeling coarse against my skin, and brushed my teeth until the minty sting finally replaced the stale residue of last night's indulgence. After pulling on a fresh set of clothes that felt crisp and clean, I finally felt like a functional human being again.

An insistent, hollow ache settled in my stomach—a blunt demand for food that I couldn't ignore. I required something to ground me, yet the prospect of a decadent carbonara or a rich ragu felt entirely too taxing for my current state. I pulled up a delivery app on my phone, scrolling past dozens of local trattorias and pizzerias. My thumb hovered over a place called Great Wall Express.

"I know, I know," I whispered, glancing toward the window as if the city itself could sense my betrayal. "I’m in Rome. I should be seeking out the finest pasta in the world."

But the heart—and the hangover—demanded its own particular salvation. Italian food simply held no appeal after a night out. I needed salt, soy sauce, and the familiar, unpretentious comfort of a cardboard oyster pail. I placed the order and waited.

Twenty minutes later, the buzzer rang. I headed down to the street level to meet the driver. A young man on a Vespa, wearing a bright yellow thermal backpack, pulled up to the curb.

"Buonasera! Ordine per...?" he asked, checking the receipt before looking at me and then spoke in English. "Good evening! Order for...?"

"For me," I said, stepping forward.

He handed over the bag, the aroma of ginger and fried rice immediately wafting through the steam. He paused, looking at the restaurant's logo and then up at the ancient architecture surrounding us. He gave a small, amused huff.

"Cinese? A Roma?" he asked, his eyebrows arching in playful judgment. "Chinese? In Rome?"

I offered a sheepish shrug, clutching the warm bag to my chest. "I know. It's a crime, right?"

"Per me? No. Ma il mio nonno? Lui ti butterebbe nel Tevere. Buon appetito,” he said with a smile. "For me? No. But my grandfather? He would throw you in the Tiber. Enjoy your meal!"

"Grazie," I called out as he sped off into the Roman twilight.

I headed back up to my apartment, the weight of the greasy bag feeling like a hard-won victory. I sat by the window, watching the golden hour light hit the cobblestones below, and dug into the lo mein and fried rice. I thoroughly enjoyed every bite, following it up with the fried dumplings, the crisp crunch of several egg rolls, and the savory sweetness of the sesame chicken.

It wasn't Italian, but it was exactly the grounding I needed. As the salt and grease began to settle my nerves, my thoughts drifted to the reason I was here alone. I had escaped my brother, though I knew the reprieve was only temporary. He would eventually find it in himself to forgive me, but I knew that he was hurt; the sting of my departure would be sharp once Santi and Marlon broke the news that I was gone.

After cleaning up the remnants of dinner, I poured myself a large glass of water. As much as I’d enjoyed the cold sodas with the meal, they wouldn’t do much to hydrate a body that had spent the last twenty-four hours dancing, partying, and sleeping through most of the day.

I picked up my phone and sent a quick text to Sera. Landed yesterday but you already knew that. I’m safe. Tell Vic I don't need a babysitter.

Her reply arrived almost instantly, written in her typical, blunt shorthand. Safe is a reach. You have a documented history of chaos and mayhem within forty-eight hours of touchdown. Stay low. No stunts like the ones you pulled in Corfu a year ago.

I knew she just wanted me safe, especially now that I had finally left Russia and the shadow of government work behind. I laughed quietly to myself and typed out a response. Italy is different.

I know it is, she shot back. It’s your connection to the Camorra family by blood. You can’t pick them and the government, friend. It’s one or the other.

Agreed, Sera, I messaged. That’s why I’m here and why I tossed the tracker you put in my stuff. I came here quietly for that reason….I need to end my work with the government here so I can help my family.

Why are you trying to kill me? she replied. I could care less about the damn tracker but I was hoping you’d stick with the government.

No, I’m not trying to kill you, I wrote. Your heart is in your throat because you’re too close to me on this. It’s why I got rid of the tracker and why I sent Vic away. I love you and I don’t want you to get hurt.

Vic can protect you while you’re there, she insisted.

Not while I’m dealing with my family. They don’t take well to outsiders.

But they could hurt you.

They won’t risk hurting me, Sera.

How do you know this?

They know who I am. They won’t risk hurting royalty….or extended members of royalty.

The response was immediate, sharp with the reality of our past. "You know better than anyone that the throne is gone, Marie. Survival doesn't make you a princess anymore."

I’m well aware of that, I typed, staring out at the Roman twilight. Russia is in a dictatorship and Italy isn’t. Look, I need to go. I need to spend another night making some connections before I see my family tomorrow.

Ok, be safe.

Thanks, I will.

I tossed the phone onto the bed. It was time to start working on the plan. Last night hadn't just been about the partying; I had managed to copy Mario’s phone and the phones of his friends as they moved through the crowd near me. The data was already beginning to paint a map of their movements. I decided that the best way to move tonight was to blend in with the unhoused population I had passed earlier.

I chugged more water to head off a brewing headache, then went to my bedroom to get dressed. I raided my closet and found well-worn clothes that had a few rips and just enough grime to pass inspection. I stripped out of my sweats and started layering the worn clothes, pulling on the heavy boots I’d been breaking in lately. In the bathroom, I added gel to my hair and tied it back into a tight, severe low ponytail.

I grabbed my phone, my Italian passport, and my Italian driver's license. When in Italy, I’d rather be a ghost of who I really am. Sure, I was born and raised here for most of my life and connected to the Camorra family in more than one way. You could say that they were family in two different ways. I was related to Robert Mazzarella by blood and I was raised in the lifestyle.

I’m sure you’re wondering who Robert Mazzarella is and I can tell you what he’s allegedly known for but not right now.

A night out

I couldn’t believe that Vic was here in Italy—and at the airport, of all places, to pick me up. He looked entirely out of step with the hurried travelers and the stern airport security, leaning against a sleek sedan with that same effortless, irritating confidence he carried everywhere. It was a confidence that felt like a physical weight in the air, anchoring him while everyone else was in a frantic rush to be somewhere else. He was still a sexy motherfucker no matter what country he was in and no matter what language he spoke, and the worst part was that he knew it.

"Close your mouth, La Duquesa. You’ll catch a Vespa," Vic said, a crooked smirk playing on his lips as he pushed off the car. He didn't move with any urgency; he moved like he owned the very pavement he stood on, each step measured and deliberate.

"What are you doing here?" I finally choked out. My brain was still trying to process the logistics of him crossing borders this quickly, or why he’d even bother. "Last time I saw you, I told you to go home to your wife and that I wanted nothing more to do with you.”

He took a step toward me, the shadow of his sunglasses hiding his eyes, though I could feel the intensity of his gaze right through the dark lenses. "Change of plans, darling. Before you say anything else, let me explain why I’m here.”

“I don’t want to know nor do I care to know,” I snapped, turning away as I adjusted the heavy strap of my duffle bag. My eyes were already scanning the line of vehicles for a sign of escape, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I was ready to whistle for a cab and disappear into the winding, ancient streets of the city before he could utter another syllable.

“Sera knew I was in France for the nude beaches," he said with a half-smile that didn't reach his eyes. "She’d been tracking your flight path after you told her your flight plan. Apparently, she didn’t trust you to navigate the arrivals terminal without starting an international incident. Again."

I just glared at him, my blood beginning to simmer. "Sera needs to mind her own business and stay out of my GPS."

Determined to end this, I stuck two fingers in my mouth and whistled loudly. The sharp, piercing sound cut through the cacophony of shouting travelers, the roar of departing planes, and the low, rhythmic thrum of idling engines. A sedan acting as a private hire began to peel away from the curb down from us and came toward me.

"She texted me," he said, unfazed by my dismissal. "She told me to go to Italy and make sure that you behave for the next forty-eight hours. She seems to think you’re a magnet for trouble the second you step off a plane."

I scoffed, smoothing my clothes as the sedan pulled to a stop. "I am perfectly capable of staying out of trouble for two days. And since when does Sera coordinate with you of all people?"

To be honest, I was surprised. Sera had never been subtle about her opinions; in the past, she had been incredibly clear when she stated that Vic wasn't good enough for me. She had listed his faults like a grocery list—too reckless, too rude, and too tethered to a life that didn't involve me. And the worst part? I agreed with every word. It didn't matter how perfect his dick was, how much he made me cum, or how easily he could read the thoughts I try so hard to hide.

"She’s desperate to keep you safe, I guess," Vic said, shrugging his shoulders. "Or maybe she just knows I’m the only one who can keep up with you when you decide to go rogue."

“I’m not on a mission, Papa,” I told him, my voice sharp and final, cutting through the humid Italian air. “Those days are behind me.”

Vic stepped closer, the scent of his expensive cologne and lingering cigarette smoke invading my space. He reached out as if to touch my arm, but I flinled back, the movement sharp and defensive.

"Don't," I hissed.

"You're shaking," he noted, his voice dropping to that low, gravelly register that used to make my knees weak. "Is it the jet lag, or are you actually happy to see me?"

"It’s the urge to commit multiple felonies in front of Interpol," I retorted. "Get out of my way, Vic."

"You always were a terrible liar," he murmured, leaning in just enough that I could feel the heat radiating off him. "I'll give you your space for now but don't think for a second you're actually getting away. I know your moves better than you do."

I looked at him one last time against the backdrop of the vehicle he’d rented and the sprawling skyline. He was a ghost from my past and a current complication I didn't need, especially not now. Yet, here he was, acting as my self-appointed shadow, looking like he had all the time in the world.

"Forty-eight hours, Vic," I warned. I didn't wait for the driver to help; I grabbed my own bags and threw them into the car myself before sliding into the back seat, the leather hot against my skin. "That’s how long you have to find me. If not, that’s on you. After that, you're back to France, and I'm back to being invisible!”

I slammed the door before he could respond, but through the glass, I saw that smirk widen into something predatory.

"Whatever you say, La Duquesa," he replied, his voice loud enough to penetrate the window as the driver pulls away. “I’ll find you. You know that I always do.”

Vic was going to find me. Eventually.

That thought was a rhythmic drumbeat in the back of my skull, steady and inevitable. He always did. He had this way of using our mutual connections – usually my brother, Bob. But this time, Sera was the leak, the soft spot in my perimeter. The love was still there between us, but she was currently nursing a martini in a different time zone with her wife, playing puppet master.

As the car accelerated, I didn't just sit back. I performed a standard sweep of my person. Sera was clever, but she had a signature style—she liked to hide trackers in the lining of things. I felt the slight, rigid abnormality in the seam of my duffel. I didn't pull it out yet; that would alert her that I’d found it. Instead, I waited until we crossed a bridge over a massive storm drain. I palmed the small, adhesive disc, rolled the window down two inches, and flicked it into the darkness.

"Step on it," I told the driver. I needed distance between my current position and the last ping on Sera’s screen.

I settled deeper into the back seat of the sedan, the interior smelling faintly of pine freshener and old, stale tobacco. The driver, a man with tired eyes that had seen too many late-night runners and desperate tourists, didn't look back as I rattled off an address of a hotel that was so far off of government employees’ radar on the far side of the city.

"How fast can you get here?" I asked, my voice sounding more tired than I wanted it to. “I know it's about a thirty-five minute drive without traffic.”

He glanced at me through the rearview mirror. "Traffic’s fairly light at this time of day. Maybe forty minutes, signora."

"I’ll double the fare if you do it in twenty," I said, my pulse still racing. "And I'm not looking for a scenic tour. I need to get somewhere away far from my past.”

The driver shifted gears, a glint of recognition appearing in the rearview mirror. I could tell by the way his posture straightened that he was a tsarist who knew exactly who I was. "Twenty minutes it is, ma’am. Hold on to your bags."

He drove like a man possessed. He treated red lights as mere suggestions and took corners with a screeching, centrifugal force that would’ve thrown me against the door if I hadn’t worn my seatbelt. Every time we jerked through an intersection, I checked the rear window. No sight of Vic's sedan. I made him take three hard lefts and a U-turn—a basic SDR (Surveillance Detection Route). If Vic was back there, he’d have to break cover to keep up. The road behind us remained empty.

We hit the curb of the address I gave him—a decoy hotel—in exactly nineteen minutes. I handed a stack of bills over the center console—a few more bills than double. "Stay here for five minutes with the engine running, then leave," I instructed.

I waited until he was idling, then slipped out the side door and into the shadows of a nearby piazza. I didn't go inside the hotel. Instead, I shouldered my bag and headed a block west, cutting through a narrow alleyway slick with debris. I performed a "cleaning" run—walking through a high-end department store with multiple exits, checking my reflection in the glass to see who was following. Clean.

My real destination was a third-floor walk-up that didn't exist on any public registry. The building was a "dead" asset, registered to a shell company in the Caymans that hadn't seen a tax return in a decade.

I used my fingerprint to gain entry, and the heavy security door immediately shut and locked itself behind me with a reassuring mechanical thud. The air in the hallway was stale, smelling of floor wax and silence. Despite how drained I was, I climbed the three flights. I didn't take the elevator; elevators were boxes that could be remotely disabled.

I reached the door of the apartment and checked the hair I’d left across the frame six months ago. It was still there, undisturbed. My fingers hovered over the digital pin pad. I punched in the eight-digit code—a sequence that rotated based on the date.

Click.

The door swung open to a vacuum of perfect order. My contact knew my neuroses. The air was chilled to exactly sixty-three degrees—optimal for keeping the server stack in the closet from overheating. There wasn't a speck of dust on the charcoal-grey sofa.

I let my duffel bag hit the floor, but I didn't relax. I went straight to the window and check the street from behind the reinforced blinds.

I stripped off my clothes in the middle of the living room, leaving a trail of "the old me" on the hardwood. I checked my body for any new marks, any bugs Vic might have planted during our "near-touch" at the airport. Nothing.

I stepped into the shower and turned the handle until the water was scalding. As the steam filled the room, obscuring the mirror and the world outside, I leaned my forehead against the tile and let the heat wash away the city, the sedan, and the lingering scent of Vic. For tonight, I was invisible.

As I was showering, I used my burner phone to access a localized dark-web forum for the Roman underground. I wasn't looking for news; I was looking for the "color of the night." I needed to know which clubs were being raided and which were safe for a "ghost" to haunt. The consensus was "neo-grunge"—a look that allowed for loose layers, perfect for concealing a small blade or a secondary burner.

I went to the closet and pulled out the gear I had cached. I found jeans that fit my waist perfectly but were baggy and strategically ripped throughout. I put on a pair of neon green thongs, slid on the ripped jeans, and applied pasties to my nipples. I followed that with a neon green mesh shirt—the kind that confused low-res security cameras with its high-contrast pattern. I layered a hunter green and black plaid flannel shirt over the top.

Since my hair was still damp, I worked in some mousse, blow-dried it for volume, and styled it into messy waves. I reached into my jeans and adjusted the straps of my thong, pulling them up high over my hips to be seen at the top of my waistband, creating a sharp “Y” to mimic a whale’s tail. It was the perfect distraction; most men would be looking at the neon string rather than my face.

I searched the hidden compartment in the desk for my passport and driver’s license. I checked the holograms under a UV light. Still good. I grabbed a signal-blocking pouch for my phone and slipped out.

I moved through the streets using "gray man" tactics—staying in the shadows, leaning into the crowd, never looking directly at a camera lens. I reached the first club, an unmarked steel door. Before entering, I tied the flannel shirt around my waist, just below the neon whale tail.

The bouncer took one look at me—the mesh, the thong, the sheer audacity of my presence—and simply stepped aside.

"Welcome back, Duquesa," he muttered. I threw him a look.

“Keep it down, dude,” I hissed. I didn't pay. In this world, the Duchess was currency enough.

When I entered, the bass hit me like a physical blow. I didn't go to the bar. I went to the back, found a corner with a clear view of the entrance and the fire exit, and waited for my eyes to adjust. Only then did I let Mario approach me. He was young, loud, and the perfect human shield.

Mario and I spent the hours drinking and dancing. I used him to move through the floor, always keeping him between me and anyone who looked too closely. But eventually, the kid ran out of steam. I kissed his cheek, checked my watch, and slipped away.

I exited through the front, passing the bouncer. "Forget that I was here tonight," I told him, my voice low and commanding.

He looked at me for a long beat. "I'll forget that you were here," he replied slowly. "But I won't ever forget who you are. I was born near the Ipatiev House, Duchess. I know a Romanov when I see one."

I didn't answer. I just headed to the next club. This time, I used the back entrance, moving through the kitchen. I traded a pack of cigarettes for a clean exit path later.

I entered the main area of the second club, a deep crimson cavern. I dove into the crowd, using the strobe lights to mask my movements. Luca and Matteo caught me—two locals who were clearly looking for a thrill. I let them flank me at the bar. They were handsy, but I kept my "work" hand free.

"Home is wherever the music is loud enough to drown out the silence," I told Matteo. He leaned in for a kiss, and I used the moment to check his pockets—nothing but a wallet and a lighter. No wire, no badge. I let myself go then, the three of us a blurred knot of motion. I flirted, I drank, but I never once stopped scanning the room for a tall man with a smirk and a hidden agenda.

I stayed on the floor until 6 AM, when the music died and the house lights stripped away the glamour. I walked out into the dawn, my flannel shirt back on, my posture shifting back to that of a nondescript tourist. I had survived the first twelve hours. Only thirty-six to go.