He usually had no problem running onto the subway or dashing between cars to get away, but today there were these crowds. Masses of peoples lining the streets. The crying little American was smarter than she looked, had shouted for the police… in French, no less. Perfect French.

“Aide! Ce gros homme a volé mes biscuits! Veuillez l’arrêter!”

While the French policemen usually ignored Americans, her nasally-perfect speech fooled them and soon they were chasing Cristobol into the crowd, shouting after him, “Arrêtez, gros homme! Donnez-nous les biscuits vous étole de la petite fille! Vous ne pouvez pas s’échapper! Arrêtez, nous disons! ARRÊT!”

He made the near-fatal mistake of looking, felt his heart jump seeing the policeman on his tail, reaching out with long, perfect fingers, nearly brushing Cristobol’s shoulder. But then things slowed down and clarity struck: through a break in the crowd he saw the bicycle.

He pushed the man off and started pedaling away, cookies in hand, laughing maniacally.