Thomas laid peacefully in his bed, until a noisy chuckling sound startled him out of his slumber. His eyes felt gummed shut and impossible to open. Yawning, he wiped at his face and stumbled across the room. There was a dry, bitter taste in his mouth and he smacked his lips several times to make it go away. He searched for the culprit.

A white-throated kingfisher was perched on a clothesline tied around one of the metal bars outside his window and connected to the railing of his neighbor's patio. The greenish-blue wings seemed almost luminescent against the chestnut-colored feathers on its back, especially when it puffed and shivered. It turned to Thomas and raised a large red bill toward the sky.

Chake-ake-ake-ake-ake! The bird loudly chuckled.

More of them swiftly flew in hordes and joined in. In the early mornings, the kingfishers served as Istanbul's faithful alarm system, but even after hearing them for almost four weeks, he couldn't get used to the sound. He swayed and rested his forehead on the glass, groggily gazing at the city.

Streets bloomed with a dusty orange hue as daylight spilled over the rooftops of the tightly compacted buildings and faintly peered through the thin gaps between them. Every building had a different color and design. From afar, some looked like hollowed out muffins with intricate icing on top, while others resembled onion bulbs imprisoned by the long spires shooting up from their sides. If an adult were to stand at the middle of the city, an overwhelming feeling of mental disorientation and claustrophobia would start to take place. But to Thomas, it was a fairytale-like labyrinth plucked out from a book.

"Over fifteen million people currently reside in Istanbul," a guide had said during a tour. The speech echoed in his mind.

Most of those people were probably waking up from all the noise the kingfishers were making. Was Christina already awake, staring at the birds as they laughed for what they've done? He thought to himself, and with a gasp, suddenly remembered that he promised to visit her early in the morning.

He darted to the bathroom. There was still plenty of time, but his sleepy mind couldn't discern what the time span of two hours was.

Second chance meetings would've seemed very improbable in such a labyrinthine city, but by some serendipitous fortune, Christina and her father were lodging no more than two blocks away from him. It was a convenient distance he gladly walked everyday for three weeks, and he couldn't wait to do it one last time.

When he exited the bedroom, he found his parents casually lounging in the living room. His father was sitting on a loveseat, hunched over and busily typing away on his tablet. His mother sat on the sofa across, jotting down a list of items they shouldn't forget. Her left hand incessantly tapped the black coffee table and her mouth silently moved as she read the piece of paper.

He planted himself between them and blurted, "mom? Dad? Can I have some money to go to Ali Usta?"

"And a good morning to you too," his mother looked up. "So, you want to go get ice cream? Does this have anything to do with Christina and your final-day-wish?"

"Yup, I want to take her there. She hasn't been."

She smiled. "Isn't that cute, honey? He wants to take his little girlfriend out on a date!"

His father nodded and chuckled.

"Moooooom! Ew? She's not my girlfriend. She's my friend. Freh-en-D. Whatever. So, can I? Can I? Please?" Repeatedly shifting his weight, he clasped both hands and pouted.

"Hmm, I have one-hundred and twenty Turkish liras. You can have it all, if you can guess what it is in dollars." He silently waited.

Thomas blinked vigorously and huffed. "Are you serious?"

"Well?"

He grimaced. His face contorted while he muttered and counted with his fingers.

"Look at him," his mother nudged his father's shoulder, "are you trying to give our son a conniption? If he blows a gasket, you're paying for the repairs."

"He knows the—,"

"Twenty dollars. Now, gimme."

"I would've given you the money, anyway," his father whispered. "Here you go, buddy. Buy her the best ice cream platters."

With twenty dollars, how much ice cream could he buy? His eyes glazed over. Suddenly, all the ice cream they could try appeared before him. There were ice cream cones topped with different flavors—chocolate, vanilla, strawberry, pecan, and any other flavor he was ever curious about. There were gigantic platters, smothered with whipped cream, overflowing with syrup, all sorts of sprinkles, a cherry on top ...

"Wait a second. James, aren't you forgetting something?"

"What's that, darling?" James asked absentmindedly and gazed at his tablet, muttering, "that's not going to work."

"Really?" She shook her head and looked up at the ceiling. "How do you plan on getting there, Thomas? Thomas!"

Her voice broke through the mirage. "No," he whimpered as the feast quickly vanished. "Uh, the ... bus?" Thomas averted his eyes when she hung her head and stared open-mouthed, choosing instead to count the colorful bills he held.

"Thomas Josiah Anderson, have you lost your mind?!? No way! You're only seven years old. There is absolutely no way I'm letting you ride all the way across town alone in a bus."

"But I'm not going alone? Christina's gonna be with me."

"Oh, yeah? Christina? Who happens to be another child! No. You're going to have to drive him," she crossed her arms, "James?"

"Huh?! But Celia—," James wanted to remind his wife that he needed to turn in a manuscript by midnight, but was stopped mid-sentence when she held up a hand.

It was a gesture he was well-acquainted with—the I'm-going-to-stop-you-right-there signal—and knew very well there was no getting out of it. She lifted a thin eyebrow and squinted. If he took too long to reply, she'd uncross her arms and rest them on her hip: that meant he'd never hear the end of it. In a futile and desperate attempt, James thought up excuses, but a nagging voice inside his mind told him not to bother.

Letting out a groan, he slumped his shoulders and slowly stood. "Thomas, why don't you go grab Christina and bring her over. I'll go get dressed."

"Cool! Thank you, thank you! Be right back!" Thomas bounced up happily and ran out the door.

"You're killing me here, Celia." He walked over to where she sat and rested his head on her shoulder.

"Don't be such a Debbie Downer, honey. I know you need to finish what you're working on, but it'll just be two hours. Take your tablet with you. Maybe one last trip will inspire you? Oh! Take them to the Ayazma Fountain and have them run around while you work."

"Ugh, if you're trying to sell me on it, I suggest you try a little more physical persuasion?" He walked away, wiggling his eyebrows.

"Oh, is that what's needed? Do you want to be the one to finish packing everything up and cook what's left in the kitchen, then? How's that for some physical persuasion for you?"

There was no reply from James as he searched for a pair of jeans.

"Mm-hmm. I didn't think so." She laughed.

Thomas's shoes loudly smacked the cobblestone street as he ran toward Christina's building. A street vendor shouted a greeting when Thomas waved at him. The man smiled warmly and waved back before continuing to prepare his street cart. As he opened the cart's door, the scent of freshly baked Simit exploded into the air, filling the area with the irresistibly sweet aroma of molasses-dipped and sesame-crusted dough. It made Thomas dizzy and his stomach grumbled.

In an attempt to escape the provocative smell, he picked up his pace and nearly collided with someone. An elderly woman in a headscarf peered down at him. Her stern features softened when he stammered an apology.

"Günaydın," she said.

He smiled in relief, repeated the good morning greeting and continued on his way.

The morning had sprung to life. Several people rushed out of buildings to go to work or sightsee, and briskly scattered in search of their objective. Others gathered around entrances and chattered boisterously among themselves, often using dramatic hand gestures amidst their storytelling. Loud laughter bounced off the walls of the colorful antique-looking buildings and bicycle bells clinked all around him, as children raced each other up a small slope. He moved out of the way when one zipped by too closely, zigzagging through crowds of people, carts and a parked scooter.

When he arrived at Christina's, he looked up toward balcony where she usually played. Many times he would stand below and wave for her to come down. That day, the balcony was empty. The only occupant were the tangling vines that twisted around its iron lattice bars and cascaded over the side in a vegetable-like waterfall. Despite that, it seemed bleak and lacked the brightness only she could give it.

He knocked on the front door.

******

***Yes, I'm not entirely certain with this one and it may require some more editing. Half of it is completely new and is in dire need of rewording. Rather than four chapters, this segment will have five. The experience in Istanbul is pivotal and adds an extra emotional layer to his attachment to Christina, so I decided to expand it a bit [763 words extra—including a few more lines of dialogue and interaction with his parents].