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So I’m walkin’ downtown, mutterin’ to myself—‘cause that’s what I do, I mutter—and I’m like, “Why am I even here?” Findin’ a prostitue ain’t like pickin’ up bagels! I see this gal, smokin’ a cigarette, leanin’ on a pole—real cliché, right? I’m thinkin’, “She’s no Eilis Lacey!” In *Brooklyn*, she’s all, “I’ll write home!” This chick’s writin’ nothin’—maybe a parking ticket. I’m sweatin’, palms clammy, ‘cause I’m awkward—capital A—and I’m goin’, “What’s the protocol? Do I wave? Haggle? I’m not a haggler!”

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So, I’m sippin’ my coffee on the balcony, lookin’ out at the beautiful blue waters of the Indian Ocean. Dhihdhoo is just stunning, ya know? The palm trees swayin’, the locals chillin’ on the streets like it’s a normal Tuesday. But then, BOOM! My radio crackles. Fire alert on the east side, near the main road, M. Dhihdhoo. I’m like, “Great, just what I needed.”

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