"There is a bus," he said carefully, "but it stops running at nine. It is now — " another look at the clock — "eight forty-seven."I kept staring.He had the grace not to smile."There is a hotel in Praiano," he said, "ten minutes down the road. I can call them.""Yes," I said. "Please. That would be — yes."He called. He spoke. He listened. He hung up."Full," he said. He said it with genuine apology in his face, like it was his fault. "There is a festival this week in Praiano. Every room."I picked up my spritz and took a long slow sip."Okay," I said."There is another — further, in Positano — ""It's fine," I said. And then, because I was tired and my bag was gone and I was sitting in a bar in a town I'd never heard of with a dying phone and no charger and the sky outside had gone fully dark, I laughed. A real one, a slightly helpless one. "It's completely fine. This is fine."Marco looked at me for a moment with those dark steady eyes.Then he smiled. A real one this time, slow a
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