The air smelled like rain and grease, like car exhaust and old pretzels—the sort of grimy city scent that stuck to your clothes, your hair, your skin.

Boris Pavlikovsky didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he looked like he was thriving in it.

He had one boot on and the other dangling from his fingers as he balanced on the edge of a cracked fountain, arms outstretched, yelling something that sounded suspiciously like Russian opera, though it was probably just a drunken mash of languages and old songs he half-remembered from his childhood in god-knows-where.

“—и потом! и потом! THE FISH, he says to the CAT—!” Boris cackled mid-verse, nearly toppling over. He caught himself just in time and flung the boot across the plaza like a discus. It hit a hot dog cart with a clang.

A group of tourists clapped. Someone threw a coin into the fountain. Boris bowed deeply.

“Merci beaucoup,” he said with exaggerated flair, then turned to Theo with a proud grin. “See? I am cultured man.”

Theo—dressed in a ragged coat two sizes too big and jeans that had definitely belonged to someone else last week—was leaned up against a newspaper stand, eating a stolen bag of dried mango like it was a gourmet meal. He looked tired but amused, lips twitching as he watched Boris trip over his own foot and grab onto a lamppost like it owed him money.

“You’re drunk.”

“I am free, my friend,” Boris corrected, slurring just slightly. “This is freedom. Capitalism, democracy, mangoes!”

“Pretty sure you mean anarchy.”

Boris waved him off. “Bah. Anarchy is so French-sounding. We are citizens of the Earth now. Is good name, yes?”

From across the street, a cluster of students in matching T-shirts—“Museum Day 2005” printed in block letters across the backs—watched the scene unfold with wide eyes. Their teachers stood a few feet away, huddled together, muttering.

“Are they… with us?” one asked.

“No,” said another, narrowing her eyes. “I think they’re… performers?”

“They’re not street performers,” one of the students muttered, staring as Boris clumsily tried to pick a flower from a city planter and ended up setting off a car alarm instead. Theo was laughing now—really laughing, the kind that doubled him over and made his voice go sharp and breathless. A few people looked over just for the sound of it.

“Should we… tell someone?”

“They look like runaways,” someone whispered. “Look at their clothes.”

“And that one guy”—she pointed at Boris—“he’s definitely foreign. Look at how he talks.”

“I think he just said he’s from Bali.”

“He said Bali, Moscow, Amsterdam, and hell,” another girl whispered. “In one sentence.”

One of the teachers tried to steer the group back toward the museum entrance. “Alright, come on. Let’s keep moving.”

But the students weren’t listening anymore. They were watching as Theo wandered toward a group of people sitting outside a café, smiling politely as he asked for the time. While they fumbled for their watches and phones, Boris slipped behind them and deftly snatched two wallets and a croissant off a plate like it was nothing.

A few students gasped. One even clapped. The teachers hadn’t noticed yet.

Boris sauntered back over, chewing the croissant with his mouth open. “Is good,” he said through crumbs. “But not enough butter.”

“You stole that.”

“Borrowed. With…delicious intent.”

Theo rolled his eyes, but he didn’t seem upset. Instead, he plopped down on the curb, legs stretched out, letting the sun hit his face.