At precisely 7 a.m., Emily and Bert stood in the hotel lobby, waiting. The tour guide, holding a small red flag, noticed them and waved excitedly. “Miss Carter!” Emily smiled warmly and waved back. “Good morning, Mr. Anderson.” “Good morning! I can’t believe you’re here earlier than I am.” The guide had a large backpack slung over his shoulder and was juggling several maps and a notebook in his hands. “Well, didn’t you say we needed to gather at seven?” “Yes, but our group is mostly older folks, and they move a bit slower in the mornings. A lot of them are used to having a proper breakfast. Rome might be romantic, but good luck finding breakfast staples like soy milk and fried dough sticks. I had to get up early and walk two streets over to pick them up from a friend’s place. By the time they finish eating and getting ready, I expect we’ll be leaving around 7:30 at the earliest.” Emily suddenly remembered the dumplings Jackson had bought for Bert the night before. Was it from the same place? “Mr. Anderson, the breakfast place you mentioned—was it run by a American family? Do they sell dumplings by any chance?” The guide shook his head, his face scrunching up with thought. “Not exactly. There’s no such shop around here, and most restaurants stick to noodles and rice dishes. The soy milk and fried dough I brought came from a friend of mine, a fellow mmigrant who’s settled here in Rome. She runs a small shop, and whenever I have a tour group, I bring them over for a meal. Everyone enjoys it, and my friend makes a little money, so it works out for both of us.” Emily nodded, understanding. “Do you know anywhere nearby that sells dumplings?” “Hmm, let me think… Around here? Not really. If you’re looking for the closest place, it’s probably about 10 or 20 kilometers away. There’s a street known for its food stalls, and they might have something like that, but I can’t guarantee it. Otherwise, you’re out of luck.” “Twenty kilometers?” Bert looked surprised. “So last night when Jackson went out late to buy food, he must’ve gone that far? Twenty kilometers?” Mr. Anderson chuckled. “Well, if you really want some, I can ask my friend. She’s good at making anything from back home, but it’s going to cost a little extra.” Emily smiled in appreciation. “Thank you for the offer, Mr. Anderson.” Suddenly, the older folks in the group, who had been chatting amongst themselves, began calling out affectionately to Emily.“Just call me Miranda,” she said with a warm smile. “Miranda? What a lovely name. Easy to remember, too,” one of the older women said, clearly charmed. A lively buzz filled the air. Emily, with her polite demeanor and gentle nature, easily charmed the group. The seniors were smitten with her, making comments like, “My daughter’s not as well-behaved as you,” and, “All I have are sons, I wish I had a daughter like you.” The lively chatter was interrupted by the sharp sound of a whistle. Mr. Anderson, the tour guide, had a whistle hanging around his neck. He called out loudly, “Everyone, settle down for a moment. Let’s do a headcount. Once everyone’s here, we’ll board the bus and head out. He continued down the list, marking off names one by one until he got to the last two new additions, Emily and Bert. “Miranda!” “Here,” Emily responded, smiling. “Both of us are here.” The seniors laughed and cheered, “All present, can we go now?” But Mr. Anderson waved them off. “Hold on, there’s still one more person we’re waiting on. Let me give him a call...” “No need. I’m here.” A calm voice cuts through the crowd. Mr. Satan had already arrived, blending into the group quietly. “Sorry, I lost track of time after taking a shower this morning.”