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.”
