CASSIAN
First was the cake. There was a tiny bakery at the corner of the piazza with a faded yellow awning and a display case full of pastries that smelled like vanilla and burnt sugar.
Julian had stopped there four times in the last week. He never went inside. He'd just stand there by the glass, his hands tucked deep into his coat pockets, looking at the small tarts with the glazed fruit on top.
It was a kind of look, like the way a stray dog looks at a warm butcher's shop, keeping his distance because he's already decided he isn't allowed to want what's inside.
I'd already talked to the woman behind the counter; she was going to have one ready for me on Tuesday morning.
Then there was the film. He was down to his last half-roll, spending hours checking the little counter on the back of the camera to see how many shots he had left.
I'd found a shop two towns over that kept three rolls of the heavy black-and-white film in a drawer behind the desk.
