The thought of him being in such close proximity to Basuram made her nervous. Plus, we’d let slip that there were actually more varieties of hot chocolate than could be found in the vending machine, and he was eager to try something new. “I want the creamed whip,” he’d told me. “Whipped cream.” “Yes. That. Selena says it makes the drink better.” “It actually makes life better.” We settled on Caffè Artigiano, on Smithe Street, which stood in the shadow of the art gallery. Street kids gathered on the steps of the art gallery, smoking pot, laughing, and letting their dogs drink water from plastic thermos cups. At this time of day, Artigiano, and the sort of blissed-out yet caffeinated brusqueness of the environment, increased the turnover of customers. If anyone was going to try something in daylight, they’d have to think twice about engaging so many random bystanders, since foot traffic from Robson always choked up side streets like this one. The lab was still close enough to be reassuring.
