Inside the Porta factory guts
It is early in the morning. A man, neither tall nor short, approaches along a path. He is distracted by the appearance of a girl who has just crossed to retrieve her dog, which has escaped. It hasn’t been even a minute, but enough for him to notice the tattoo on the young woman’s arm. He observes people, infers their biographies with little data. He calls it “the game of life.” Also, that person, who knows, could be a possible witness to a criminal act. He will have to go back to look for her. He also usually memorizes car license plates. He can’t help it.