#friendship

Sumi had been at the summer festival for six minutes when she realized they were eating incorrectly.

“We need a plan,” she said.

Shira stopped beneath a string of paper lanterns.

“No.”

“You don’t know what the plan is.”

“You said we need one.”

Freya unfolded the festival map.

“What are we optimizing?”

“Food,” Sumi said.

Shira looked from one of them to the other.

“I’m going home.”

The festival occupied four blocks around the old town square. There were food stalls, musicians, local artists, children carrying glowing plastic swords, and a man on stilts dressed as what Sumi believed was either a heron or an extremely disappointed angel.

The air smelled of grilled corn, frying dough, woodsmoke, and sugar.

Sumi had already eaten half a plum pastry.

It did not count. She had bought it before realizing they needed a plan.

“We have to pace ourselves,” she explained. “If we eat the filling things first, we won’t be able to try everything.”

“We are not trying everything,” Shira said.

Sumi looked at her.

Shira wore a loose black dress despite the heat, black boots, and the expression of someone who had been brought to the festival as part of a court-ordered rehabilitation program.

“We can’t try literally everything,” Sumi conceded.

“Thank you.”

“There are two stalls selling kettle corn.”

Shira closed her eyes.

Freya was studying the map.

“We should begin with the north side,” she said. “Highest concentration of small portions. Then the eastern block before the dinner rush.”

Shira had been at the beach for eleven minutes when Sumi announced that she was healing.

“I can see it happening,” Sumi said.

Shira lowered her sunglasses. “What?”

“Healing.”

“From what?”

Sumi gestured broadly at her.

They were standing outside a small rental cottage two blocks from the water. Sumi had already changed into shorts and a blue camisole and was carrying a canvas bag containing sunscreen, three oranges, a paperback she would not open, two bottles of water, and enough food to survive a minor maritime disaster.

Freya had gone back inside because she had forgotten her running watch.

Shira regarded Sumi for several seconds.

“I’m going home.”

“You can’t. Freya has the car keys.”

“I’ll walk.”

“It’s four hours.”

“I have music.”

This was true. An old silver iPod Classic was clipped inside Shira’s bag, its scratched back polished smooth in places from years of use.

Sumi brightened. “Perfect! A healing walk.”

Shira put her sunglasses back on.

Freya came out of the cottage already wearing her watch.

“I found a seven-kilometer loop for tomorrow morning,” she said.

“Of course you did,” said Shira.

“It follows the coast.”

“That almost makes it sound recreational.”

“It is recreational.”

“You timed yourself brushing your teeth yesterday.”

“That was an experiment.”

Sumi took Shira by the wrist. “Come on. Ocean.”

They started toward the beach.

Shira had agreed to this trip six weeks earlier, at dinner, under conditions she now regarded as legally questionable. Sumi had made dumplings with roasted mushrooms, scallions, and something involving browned butter that neither Shira nor Freya had expected to work. It had been astonishing. Freya had told her she could sell them for eighteen dollars a plate. Sumi had looked horrified.

Under the soft glow of twilight, Tbilisi unfolded like a tapestry of eras past and present, its ancient cobblestones echoing stories of resilience and transformation. Amidst this historic symphony, Alex and Zara threaded their way, their laughter and light footsteps companions in the quest for the elusive Emblem of Aeonium.

The air buzzed with the fusion of Eastern and Western architectural marvels, a blend that spoke volumes to Alex's Dominican roots, woven through the bustling streets of New York City and the charm of Charlotte. "Feels like home, doesn't it?" he mused, his gaze admiring the vibrant juxtapositions that mirrored his own multicultural narrative.

Zara, ever the linguist, traced the curves of Georgian scripts with her eyes, finding familiarity in their form. "Every script has a story," she replied, her voice laced with the wonder of her global upbringing, from the Nepalese highlands to the Kenyan savannahs. "It's like they're talking to us, inviting us into their world."

Their adventure took a thrilling twist upon meeting an elderly storyteller in the maze of a bustling bazaar. Over cups of fragrant Georgian tea, the storyteller unfolded a tale of the Karoli, mythical guardians of the land's treasures, now corrupted by the dark magic of Magnus Opus to protect a piece of the Emblem of Aeonium.

"The Narikala Fortress," the old man said, his voice dropping to a whisper, "that's where your journey leads. But beware, the Karoli won't let its secrets go easily."