Jane pulled into the darkest corner of a parking lot, beside a gigantic, thriving supermarket tobacconist’s. Even at midnight, rings of Yankee addicts were steadily packing their lungs with smoke. Jane yanked another paper refugee suit from the U.S. government carton, and in a seven-minute determined struggle, she crammed Alex’s arms and legs into the suit and zipped him up to the neck. She didn’t have any shoes for Alex. She should have thought about the goddamned shoes.