The light was dying, bleeding a spectacular orange and bruised purple over the Mediterranean. Eli didn’t look at the sunset; he was facing a graffitied retaining wall a few blocks up from the harbor. He was perched on a low stone ledge, his knees tucked close to his chest. His Gore-Tex jacket was damp with the evening chill and the heavy mist rolling off the sea. He pulled the last, slightly squashed half of a day-old baguette out of his pocket. It tasted mostly of garlic and disappointment. Monaco. It was different. In Istanbul, he’d felt the weight of history in the stones he walked on. In Lisbon, he felt it in the melancholy music drifting from the tavernas. Here, he felt the weight of money. It wasn't the history he’d come for; he’d stopped because he needed a few days to process the photos from Italy and the cheap campground just across the border was a solid base. He took a slow sip of tepid water from his canteen. The camera bag lay heavy beside him, a faithful, demanding companion. He unzipped the main compartment, not to pull out the camera, but just to check on the journals. There were three of them, bound in thick leather. The first was full, documenting the bustling chaos of Asia. The second was half-full, recording the cold, beautiful solitude of the Balkans. The third, currently open to a blank page, was for the rest of Europe. He traced his thumb over the spine of the empty journal. The Accidental Map. That was the name of his project. He was supposed to be mapping the places people went when they wanted to disappear, the small, real moments of humanity lost between the tourist traps. But what was he mapping here? The only thing people seemed to disappear into was their luxury cars and private yachts. It felt like a sterile, polished stage set, with no authentic cracks for a story to latch onto. "Just get the damn shots, Vance," he muttered to himself, using the nickname his best friend back home always used. "A photo is a photo." He finally lifted the camera and looked through the viewfinder.