"Yes, but I didn’t want to worry you. There’s a much higher chance of being murdered for your wallet on the cross-country trains anyway," Michael said coolly. Not sure whether or not the Englishman was joking, Serrin picked up his hand luggage and ambled through the heat haze toward the van offering to convey them the last hundred yards to the wasting flying coffin. It seemed singularly pointless. He could have walked it in a minute, but instead had to sweat it out for twenty inside the superheated van interior waiting for the last of the puffing tourists to board.