“Have a chair,” he told her, which Roxie did in a folding chair along side a desk, and he sat in an office chair on the other side.“Can I have m... say now?” Roxie demanded.“No,” he replied and went into a desk drawer and pulled out a form.He started writing something on the form. Roxie read the name tag over the pocket on his uniform blouse: M. Thibodeau. He had sergeant’s stripes on his khaki sleeves.“Name?” he grunted at last.“Roxanne Pringle,” Roxie sighed.“Age?”She told him. He went through. She was here because she was six months into her post-uni, post temp-work, mid-recession trip through Europe, and it had seemed like a good idea at the time, a week ago, in Berlin, when someone said that Pamplona was about to happen. She had come because she wanted to do something, and this was the most memorable thing she could do. She felt brave. She thought she was brave. She wasn’t completely sure why she was here, but it was to find something, or to find out something, and that seemed. More

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