“You’re seriously going to eat that?” Amina asks as we sit down on a bench in Rittenhouse Square, a fancy park that just beckons you to have a picnic in it. Lush gardens with stone barriers perfect for perching on top of, and a fountain so old it has a landmark sign on it, the mosaic tiles lining the bottom glittering in the afternoon autumn sun. The square is bustling, the weather surprisingly warm. People are out and about with their dogs, and young couples with little toddling kids who dash after one another are laughing as they jet across large patches of grass.

The sandwich is warm in my lap, the paper gone clear after walking several city blocks to get to the park from Broad Street. I unwrap it carefully, the contents precious, and glance over at Amina’s plastic bag.

“You could have gotten one too, you know.” I smile at her. “I mean, who gets a salad at Wawa?”

“I get the salads at Wawa,” she playfully snaps, her nose crinkling in a way that drives me crazy. Her dark brown eyes flit down to the sandwich in my lap and back up at me, her winged eyeliner making her gaze feel even more penetrating. She smiles and my heart flutters. “That paper is gross. How do you have gravy on your jeans already? Look at your hand!” She grabs my hand and then tosses it back at me, like it’s a filthy rag. “It’s sweaty! From carrying a sandwich!”

I take a bite and audibly moan. The bread is soggy, but it’s soggy with gravy, and the flavors just explode in my mouth.

“Sorry, I can’t hear you over all this joy.”

“You don’t make any sense,” Amina scoffs, taking her salad out of her bag. It’s prepackaged neatly, and she peels off the plastic, mixing everything together. It’s some kale and quinoa thing. She aggressively points at me with her plastic fork in an exaggerated way, to the point that her thick black curly hair jostles around her shoulders. “You are literally having everything in that sandwich at your parents’ house in, like, five hours. And at mine in four.”

“It gets me psyched. This sandwich is the hype man for Thanksgiving dinner.” I take another bite and have to mentally force my body not to shudder. This sandwich is everything. A little kid hustles by us, chasing a tennis ball, his tiny hands outstretched in front of him the entire way. “Besides, does your family even do Thanksgiving like this? The stuffing and all that?”

“What? Of course!” She laughs. “Are you expecting turkey moussaka or something? Grape leaves?”

“No, I . . . wait, what’s moussaka?” I ask, taking another bite of my sandwich.