The narrator digresses into a memory of an Italian documentary from the 1980s, recommended by her colleague Vito, in which a nine-year-old boy named Franck speaks with disturbing sexual confidence about a recent sexual encounter with a girl his age. She and Vito bonded over preferring Italian cinema to French, partly to needle their colleagues Serge and Lucien.

Franck, chewing gum and posturing like a teenager, describes lovemaking and play, criticizes adults' fear of children's sexuality, and envisions an adult life of routine: work, shower, dinner, TV, sex, sleep, repeating endlessly. The narrator reflects that to preserve the unsettling impression he made, Franck would ideally have met some dramatic fate, or never aged at all.

She admits she looked up Franck on Facebook and found him grown into an unremarkable man with a Lamborghini banner image, interests in Nescafé and Burger King, and membership in a group called I Love My Daughter. Adulthood, she concludes, has sanded him into mediocrity, fulfilling his childhood blueprint of monotonous routine.

The narrator muses that awkward-phase photos should be incinerated, leaving only angelic baby pictures—like the one of Guy Debord she found in Pascal's file—as a shared photographic commons. She imagines grown-up Franck now driving an Amazon delivery van in a Lamborghini cap.