Chapter 1: The Meeting of Old Friends
Lewis Harris stepped out of the glass doors of the airport into the cool Washington evening. The air, saturated with the smell of exhaust fumes and wet asphalt dust, hit his face, as if reminding him of the chaos of civilization. After months in a desert combat zone, where silence was broken only by explosions and rare cries, the wail of sirens and the hum of cars seemed deafening. Streetlights cast sharp yellow glints onto the wet sidewalk, and the distant roar of a plane taking off into the sky mingled with the buzz of the crowd. Lewis adjusted his heavy backpack, feeling the rough fabric of the straps digging into his shoulders. He had just returned from another editorial assignment—one of those after which a person needed either good whiskey or a good vacation.
“My old friend,” came a familiar voice, warm but with a slight hoarseness, breaking through the street noise.
Lewis turned, squinting from the streetlight’s glow, and saw John Kane. He stood at the edge of the sidewalk, tall, sturdy, with blue eyes in which the city lights reflected. Light stubble covered his face, as always neatly trimmed, but betraying fatigue. The NASA engineer looked quite good for a man who had withdrawn into himself and work after the tragic death of his fiancée Mary. His jeans were slightly worn, his dark green jacket smelled of machine oil, and his boots, covered with a thin layer of dust, revealed a habit of field trips. The wind tousled his hair, and his eyes showed tension—as if he still wasn’t used to the crowd and noise.
“And you’re still so proper,” Lewis smirked, extending his hand to his friend. His palm, roughened from months in field conditions, met John’s firm grip. They shook hands, as if testing whether their old strength and confidence remained. John’s fingers were cold, his skin slightly rough, like that of a man accustomed to holding tools. At that moment, a car sped by, its headlights illuminating their faces, and its horn pierced their ears. Lewis winced but didn’t let go of his friend’s hand, feeling in the gesture something that connected them through years of separation.
“Let’s go, we need to talk,” John suggested, nodding toward the street, where the flickering signs of bars and cafés reflected in puddles. His voice was calm, but there was insistence in it, as if he had already made up his mind. Lewis nodded, adjusting his jacket collar to shield himself from the cold wind blowing from the Potomac River. They moved through the crowd, weaving past hurrying passersby, whose voices merged into an indistinct hum. The smell of roasted chestnuts from a street vendor mixed with the metallic tang of the air, and somewhere in the distance, a metro train rumbled, shaking the asphalt under their feet.
An hour later, they sat in a small bar, tucked away in the shadow of a narrow alley. Muted blues flowed from old speakers, its hoarse notes blending with the smell of whiskey and polished wood. The bar’s walls were lined with dark panels, and the light from dim lamps in copper shades fell on the table, covered with a worn tablecloth. Lewis took a sip of whiskey, feeling the burning liquid spread through his throat, leaving a slight taste of oak and smoke. He sighed heavily and leaned back in his chair, which creaked under his weight.
“Ugh, it’d be nice to drop everything to hell for a couple of months,” he muttered. “I need a real vacation. No phones, no editors, no urgent flights to hot zones.”
“I know. That’s why I called you,” John replied. “I’m also tired after losing Mary… You know, I buried myself in work and barely rested for years, trying to forget. It seems I’m managing a bit. So a little rest wouldn’t hurt me either.”
He paused and looked at Lewis:
“And you, as someone who’s traveled almost the whole world and seen so many places, can you suggest where we should go? What place to choose to really disconnect?”
“Hm… I’ve got a couple of ideas,” Lewis said and, without another word, placed a tablet on the table. His fingers, still exuding a mix of desert smells, sun-baked camera plastic, and a faint hint of gun oil, touched the screen. A map of Tibet appeared instantly. The lines of mountain ranges and valleys glowed on the dark background, like stars in the night sky. John squinted, leaning closer to examine the details.
“What, you’re suggesting I escape to a monastery?” he asked his friend, his voice trembling with surprise, but his eyes sparked with interest. He ran his finger along the edge of his glass, leaving a wet trail.
“Almost. Tibet has perfect conditions for rest. Minimal tourists, maximum peace. And they say there are ancient artifacts there; you could study them. And I—could finally relax and switch off my head,” Lewis said, looking at his friend with a slight smile. His voice was confident, but it carried genuine care.
“Damn it, Harris…” John laughed, his laughter echoing off the bar’s low ceiling. He poured himself more whiskey, splashing a bit on the table, and the drink’s aroma mixed with the smell of the seats’ old leather. “You’re damn good at persuading.”
“So, we’re going?”
“Of course, we’re going. It’s long overdue to escape civilization.”
They clapped hands, and the sound of their palms meeting with force briefly drowned out the blues. Outside the bar’s window, the lights of passing cars flashed, and the cold wind tapped on the glass, as if reminding them of the world they were about to leave behind.
