"Excuse me if I don't trust the mallrat to remember all the pertinent details," Jean-Paul says dryly. Books bagged up, he walks outside into Deerington's autumn. He looks around, frown lessening at last.

"Chrisse," he murmurs. He gestures sharply for David to follow him across the street. There's a coffee shop there, thankfully not staffed by anyone he knows.

"I know," he says. "So. You're, what, a few days old and now you're in a hellscape version of Maine. Welcome, I suppose."