In a row of souvenir shops by the Hagia Sofia, a tiny girl with blonde curls wanders ahead of her mother, who has been enjoying the distractingly flirtatious salesmen.  Both hold pensive looks on their faces. The mother assesses a tapestry; the girl idly lifts a yellow ceramic shoe the length of her head. The keepsake is decorated with painted flowers and a scrawl of the word “Istanbul,” which she squints over since she’s too young to read. The girl tucks the shoe under her arm and moves on to the next storefront.

The salesman, not alarmed, holds his cigarette at his side and smirks at the girl’s boldness. As her mother catches up, she gives him a knowing smile without knowing. He nods toward her child. The mother blinks, rebuffed for a moment, until she realizes what she should have been supervising.

“Sam!” Our tiny cold criminal gazes toward…