Liz smiles at the bench seat (at Red, really), then at the rows of people sitting along the steps out in the square. "Put the fear of God into him."

A toddler goes running past, shrieking happily with a melting ice cream cone in pudgy hand, his father in swift pursuit; Liz's smile softens further before she remembers herself and sits up straight.

"--I should probably go, Red," she says, reluctant, now sitting Indian style. "But I'll see you soon. Really soon."