Now, as the two of them guzzle cola in front of the bus stop, I sigh. They hear it and react together.

“Oh, come on, Taki! You’re giving up already?!”

“What about all our hard work?!”

I heave another sigh, so deep it almost brings my lungs up with it. Okudera-senpai’s wearing oddly gung-ho clothes meant for serious hiking. In contrast, Tsukasa’s in chinos like he’s just strolling around the neighborhood. At this point, both outfits really irritate me.

“You guys have been zero help…”

They both look innocent, as if to say, Oh, really?

“I’ll have a Takayama ramen.”

“One Takayama ramen here.”

“Uh, okay, then I’ll have the same, too.”

“You betcha. Three ramen!” says the middle-aged lady cheerily.

On our fruitless way to the next (abnormally distant) station, we found a ramen shop that was miraculously open and made a beeline inside. When the lady wearing a triangular kerchief told us, “C’mon in,” her smile seemed a beacon, not unlike the appearance of a long-awaited search party when you’re lost.

The ramen’s good, too. Contrary to its name, it’s perfectly ordinary ramen (I thought it might have Hida beef on top, but it was regular braised pork), but as soon as I eat the noodles and veggies, I can feel my body recharging. After draining the soup bowl dry and drinking two cups of water, I finally take a breather.

“Do you think we’ll be able to get back to Tokyo today?” I ask Tsukasa.

“Hmm… I don’t know. We may be cutting it close. Want me to check?”

Tsukasa apparently didn’t expect this but nevertheless pulls out his phone and starts looking up how to get home.

“Thanks,” I tell him.

“Taki, you’re sure that’s all right?” Okudera-senpai asks.

She’s across the table from me and hasn’t finished eating yet. I’m not immediately sure how to answer, so I look out the window. The sun’s just barely caught on the edge of the mountains, shining peacefully over the fields along the prefectural highway.

“I can’t explain it, but it’s starting to feel like I’m on the wrong track,” I mutter, half to myself. It might be better to go back to Tokyo and rework my strategy. It would be one thing if I had photos, but expecting to find the town with sketches like these might have been asking too much. At least, that’s how it starts to seem when I pick up my sketchbook and gaze at it. It’s a completely ordinary country town, with the sort of houses you see everywhere scattered around a round lake. Even though it felt so solid to me when I finished drawing it, it looks like an anonymous, mediocre landscape now.

“That’s old Itomori, ain’t it?”

“Huh?” I turn around and see the lady’s apron. She’s pouring water into my empty cup.

“Did you draw that, son? Say, can I have a look?” She takes the sketchbook from me. “This is a real good picture. Hon, c’mere a sec!”