The sun was still low when Daniela and Cassandra walked along the city's side streets, far from the main bustle.
The morning had that mixed smell of freshly baked bread and old dust, typical of places that wake up too early to pretend they function properly.
The two walked slowly, stretching their arms, shrugging their shoulders, like people who had spent the whole night awake and yet were strangely energetic.
Daniela stretched her arms above her head, letting out a long sigh.
"I swear," she said, yawning, "that if today involves more incompetent people saying 'it's always been like this,' I'm going to lose my patience."
Cassandra walked beside her, hands behind her head, her expression too relaxed for someone talking about the city's structural problems.
"You always say that," she replied calmly. "And then you're surprised when you lose your patience anyway."
