Vincent drives us to an apartment complex twenty minutes outside of Paris. We climb the stairs to the second floor and he shows me into a large apartment. I sit on a couch and Vincent gets me a glass of milk.

"Do I look like I'm seven?" I ask, laughing.

He laughs too. "I don't have much here."

I drink the milk. "Thank you for coming for me."

"I didn't think you'd talk to me again," he says, sitting down beside me on the couch.

"What's done is done," I say.

The apartment is all but empty. It looks like Vincent is either moving out or just moving in.

"Is...