She stops for a moment between a barrow selling caramelised nuts and another with a heady vat of mulled red wine, cheap and acid before it was boiled and rank now with sawdust cinnamon. In the narrow space between them, a modest little coffee truck. She touches her terminal to the point of sale, then walks away again, drinking coffee and following her feet. She finishes the cup too soon on purpose, letting the last swallow burn her throat. She knows now why she’s here.