I offered out my hand and took the map from him.
“Cheers mate, I’m a little bit lost, I reckon,” he said.
I didn’t recognise the man, but part of my cover involved helping the locals, blending in, so I knew I’d better.
“No worries,” I told him.
But as I glanced down, I realised he was lost for a reason. I was rusty, had taken my eyes off him entirely. He knew this.
The second-to-last thing I remember seeing were the pages of that stupid “Bristol Pub Guide.”
The floor racing up at me was the last.