He went there in the mornings when it was still dark. He carried an empty shoulder bag and pushed his bicycle up the slope. Through the years Yohan had begun to deliver newspapers. He followed his assigned route, reached into his bag, threw a paper against a door. He raced through the streets. When his path crossed with the others he clicked his flashlight and they signaled back. They vanished as fast as they appeared. That hour filled with the sound of wheels on the cobblestone and the blinking lights of the bicyclists spread out over the town and the coast until they faded, one by one. On those mornings he was tired and yet awake. His body sluggish and yet alert. The heat had already started. He hung his damp shirt on a branch and lay down on the ridge, pulling his hat over his eyes, feeling the grass against him. He waited for daylight, the familiar shapes of the town to distinguish themselves, the gray and the blue of the water. On a far beach where a hotel had been built, umbrellas stood closed and scattered along the sand.
