I returned to the village square, my treasured half-a-t-shirt clenched in my fist, to find Xander and Cecil buying a glass of lemonade from a local teenager. At least that’s what I thought they were doing, though to this day I have no idea if they even have lemonade in Argentina. The scene was made a tad bit surreal by the three large bodies lying on the ground leaking motor oil.
“Xander!” I called as I approached.
Xander was so relieved to see me that not only did he not correct my use of his first name, but he actually ran up to me and stretched out his arms as if to pull me into a great big hug before remembering how uncomfortable physical contact made him feel. Instead he dropped his arms, cleared his throat, and sort of nodded in my general direction.