There is a field with horses out grazing, and a farmhouse up on top of the hill. The farmhouse belongs to a family called Bartreith, and there is a small yellow signpost at the side of the road leading to this house that says just that.
There is a man sitting on a blanket which he has spread out on a grassy patch beside the road studying papers with drawings on them. Walk past, then think of the rucksack yesterday with all of the papers inside. Turn back and ask him whether, by any chance, the rucksack belonged to him. Tell him the story, and explain that there is no reason to really care, for the police will see to it that everything is returned to order.
A conversation ensues, he has a decision to make.
Whether it is better to live insecurely and expensively in Munich or to commute from his work in Munich and to live in Landshut. Two hours driving every working day would be the result of the one decision, and a danger of not being able to pay for his family home in the case of his work not being as successful as hoped would be the result of the other.
He is curious about the strains of commuting and the exhaustion involved in regular car driving. That exhaustion that sets in once the thrill has gone, once the favourite means of transport would be a self driving car with not thrills attached.
And then leave him to continue the walk around the hills on this which might turn out to be the last perfect day this year.
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