At the end of Day Three of the conference, after the gathering with chilled beer and neatly sorted little appetizers, after the trading of business cards of varying degrees of texture, font and thickness, he declined a colleague's offer to share one of the peculiar-looking cabs idling outside of the conference center and opted to walk back through the now-silent streets. The odors of fish and garbage lingered in the humid night. Occasionally he passed other people. Their gazes would run quickly across his face and suit, but they didn't make eye contact.

After fifteen minutes and a couple of glances at a laminated street map his wife had insisted on slipping in his travel luggage, he crossed a short bridge and came to where the little pink hotel squatted, its small balconies unused. White-ish curtains moved softly through the open windows, pushed by a light and welcome breeze.