Gonzalez rolls her eyes a little. "I'm from Westerlin, the same as you," she says, then relents. "My parents are from Zaledo, but I was born here. They're diplomats, or something. I never really got the hang of what they do."
Zaledo is the closest neighboring country to Westerlin. Freddie lifts his head and ventures that he's always wanted to visit. You have never been, yourself, but you've met plenty of Zaledoan people and seen paintings and photographs of dusty, terracotta palaces in the midst of desert plains.
"Go in the wintertime," Gonzalez advises. "It's far too hot in the summer, you have to lie around and do nothing because otherwise you just die."
She dramatically re-enacts said death on the train seat, and Freddie laughs a little behind his hand.
Then the moment of camaraderie fades, and silence stretches out. Freddie leans forward on his elbows. "What's your name, anyway?"
You answer: