I could have kissed him. Since then she’s added a few more words, mostly names: Mark. Hannah. And me: she asked for me. I’m flying to see her the week after we return.

I distribute the drinks, passing one each to Zadie, Emma, Compton, Hannah, and Vani. None of us has the stomach for alcohol so early in the day, especially after the debauchery of the last several days, but we’re all thirsty. We got up early and walked out without our bag of water bottles, but as I’m about to start chugging mine, Hannah waves her sparkling water and says, “Wait.”

We look at her. Even after being so sick, she never quite lost her baby weight, and the extra pounds suit her; her shape is as smooth and healthy and lush as a perfectly drawn charcoal figure. She’s gone nautical and retro in her dress theme: long white pants, a flowy blue-and-white striped shirt, big round sunglasses, a scarf in her fair hair. “A toast.” She raises her bottle. “To our annual trip!”

“Our trip,” we echo. I down my fizzy water so fast there’s a decent chance it’s going to spray out of my nose and douse everyone in a ten-foot radius. The thought makes me giggle, which makes everyone giggle, I suppose because I am not by nature a giggly person, and on this particular occasion I don’t even have the excuse of alcohol. I’m punchy and hungover, but there’s no denying how good this feels, having the six of us together again.

After our ship docks in Morocco, we disembark, clear customs, and pass through the glass-walled terminal building into the sunlit brightness of the streets of Tangier. At the curb stands a trim man in a blue baseball cap, his gaze fixed on the flood of passengers as they exit. He catches Hannah’s eye and straightens, heaving both arms above his head, waving them from side to side in giant enthusiastic arcs.

“Dr. Geier!”

Hannah raises a hand in return, which turns into a prolonged mutual bow—the world’s new handshake equivalent—as she reaches him. “Hi. Hannah Geier,” she says, beaming.

He beams back, removing his ball cap—emblazoned with the letters USA in red embroidery—and doffs it in our direction, revealing a head of closely trimmed black hair. “It is my very great honor to meet you, Dr. Geier, Dr. Marchand, Dr. Anson, Dr. Colley, Dr. Compton, and”—he bows to Vani, bringing up the rear—“Dr. Darshana.”

I am impressed with this guy’s memory, particularly since he would have had to study copies of our god-awful passport photos to know who is who. “Likewise,” I say cautiously when it’s my turn for a bow, unable to remember his name from the travel itinerary Hannah has emailed us.