[A map? A map. If it's anywhere, it ought to be stuffed in among the quantity of folded items stashed alongside an insulated beverage container that belongs to no one currently in this vehicle. Viktor, being as kind as he is queasy, grabs the whole packet and sorts through it on his lap.

In regards to the crystal issue,]

I lost mine.

[And has yet to discover the nigh featureless slab of glass and plastics traded in its place.

Restaurant menu, two white envelopes, more than two corresponding white slips printed with tabular information under the heading of PARKING VIOLATION—a lot of those, actually— Ah, the next one is it. After tucking the violative envelopes and such right back where they belong, in case someone might miss them, he unfolds the map in a big ugly accordion of information. Lines everywhere. So many colours. It's clearly the work of some poor artist labouring at the mercy of someone who thinks money means they know how things ought to look. Then again, nearly everything he's seen so far has been equally garish, so maybe they were into it—]

Getty Center, [he announces, with that very landmark pinned under one finger.] There appears to be a route leading right to it, by the name of, [squinting,] four-oh-five. See if you can find that.

[He knows not what he invokes.]