Surf rumbled in the distance. The gray morning mist carried hints of the Atlantic, the air cold, salty and wet. Temperatures hovered below 60 degrees. A white taxi sped along the empty avenue, its rubber tires cutting through shallow puddles. Street lights reflected on the slick road. Most of the shops were shuttered, their windows black and empty—except the bakery, its windows aglow.

Bakers carried trays, stocking the shelves. Two women arranged loaves of bread and croissants in the storefront’s display. Nick rounded the curb and parked their rental in the hotel’s drop zone. He opened the car’s doors as Hunt bounded down the stairs. Both wore white, the Running of the Bulls uniform. “I’ll drive,” Hunt said, and Nick tossed him the keys.