The sullen waiter at the place we call "Angry Indian" brings our platters of food, and Kevin and I continue our discussion.
"So if you guys ever do get rich," he says, "I need you to do me a favor. I need you to get an apartment in Bruges."
"I feel like this is like one of the criminals on the crosses around Jesus, saying 'Lord, remember me when you come into your kingdom,'" I say while Kevin nods firmly.
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