The path winds through a stand of tall green pines, and the space underneath them -- not a clearing, but a wide gold-lit carpet under the trees themselves. The canopy of heavy branches dips low enough to just barely clear the head of a young girl, or to hang a cool awning over a seated adult.

There are two, here.

She knows them.

Alain is cross-legged, his back against a pine trunk; he has a cigarette, and an easy half-smile that broadens at Ingress's approach.